Sixteen Nights in Sandy Shores
by avalise
Summary: "I'm here because of YOU. Madrazo's goons want to kill me because of YOU. And this ain't a home, it's a fuckin' dump," Michael wafts his hand around in the dark. "You'd be better off sleeping at your airplane hangar, you know that?"
1. Chapter 1

**Night Two.**

"Will you move over?" Michael grumbles, and when he rolls to his opposite side there's a small lump in his hair. He knocks his head back and forth with a violent shake and a cigarette butt tumbles to the pillow. He glares and throws it towards the far wall, over Trevor.

Trevor's eyes bolt open at the voice. He wasn't asleep, but wasn't far off. He and Michael only stumbled into bed about 15 minutes ago. There's no light in the tiny bedroom other than sprinkles of moonlight, peering through bullet holes that line the side of the trailer. He rolls over, barely able to make Michael out in the darkness and whispers, "Will _you_ keep your voice down? You'll wake up Patricia."

Michael's eyeroll is palpable but he lowers his voice anyway, "She's fine. After all, you so graciously gave her the earplugs I bought at that shit discount store. Thanks for that."

"She deserves a better night's sleep than your selfish ass. If anything, I needed those. Your snoring is out of control. Fat's seeping into your lungs and blocking air flow."

"I bought those because I'm sick of hearing you talk—no, _yell_—in the middle of the night."

"I only do that if I smoke crystal before bed."

"Which is every night."

"Not tonight!"

"Oh, so sorry! I'm sure the gasoline huffing and whiskey will really help my chances at a good night's sleep."

"Will you quit complaining?" Trevor leans up on an elbow, "You can always sleep outside. Like the dog that you are."

"Wouldn't want to intrude on your boyfriend's territory. Doesn't he circle your trailer throughout the night, waiting outside for your next command like the lap dog that _he_ is?"

"Hey!" Trevor yells, and peeks through the doorway to make sure Patricia didn't stir on the couch. She's still, her pink sweatsuit rising and falling with a peaceful sleep. He smiles for a split second until he turns back to Michael with a frown, voice lowering back to an intense whisper, "You leave Ron out of this. At least he's loyal, which is something I can't say for the fucking reptile I'm currently sharing a bed with."

Michael glowers and rolls onto his back.

Trevor does the same, folding his hands over his chest and they're shoulder to shoulder, "And no, I will not move over. There's two halves of a bed, right? I'm well within my range. It's not my fault that your plump excuse for a body makes your half a bit tighter than mine."

"Fuck you."

"Yeah? Fuck you right back. I've opened up my home and all you do is complain. And insult my trusted employees, no less."

"I'm here because of YOU. Madrazo's goons want to kill me because of YOU. And this ain't a home, it's a fuckin' dump," Michael wafts his hand around in the dark. "You'd be better off sleeping at your airplane hangar, you know that?"

"There's the door, princess!" Trevor gestures with a wide arm, "You're welcome to use it. If you head over there, maybe one of those bikers will snipe you in your sleep. Do us all a real favor. Then you can resurface in another nine years with an even fruitier name."

Michael runs a hand over his face, "God, how is this only the second night with you?"

Despite the bickering, Trevor smiles, "Get used to it, Mikey—we're bunking again. Gotta lie low for quite a bit. Afterall," he starts, mockingly, "Madrazo's _goons_ want to kill you."

There's the sound of a deep, deep breath and Michael exhales, "Fuck me."

When the sun rises, Michael's mouth is hanging open, snoring so loudly his throat is doomed for pain the moment he wakes. His right leg dangles off the bed, hands clasped over his chest. Trevor is face down, turned on the mattress just enough to breathe. A nice puddle of drool expands under his chin and his left arm is locked straight over Michael's waist. He's mumbling, "Fucking… look at me like that… It's… FUCK YOU!"

"Gah!" Michael jolts awake from the outburst, his heart in his throat with panic. He swallows, desperate to control his breath, and looks down, shoving Trevor's arm off him who is completely, and totally, unfazed by his own screams of slumber. "Goddammit, TREVOR!"

In the kitchen, Patricia smiles towards the bedroom before returning to the stove, tending to breakfast.

**Night Three.**

"Get up."

Michael is lying in the bed, his gray suit already patterned with patches of dirt and sweat. He hasn't bathed since they left LS. Trevor's bathroom is a nightmare, hygiene levels lower than the local sewer. He secretly hopes the toilet and shower are the next stops for Mrs. Madrazo since she's been keeping herself occupied cleaning the trailer. The living room and kitchen already look brand new. Stockholm Syndrome be damned, he's grateful for her.

Trevor stands at the side of the bed, impatient, peering down at Michael through his aviators. When he doesn't receive a response, he kicks the heel of his boot into Michael's hip.

Michael doesn't budge and swats him away.

Trevor rolls his eyes, "Come on, Pork Chop. You can't pull this shit the whole time we're out here."

"Like hell I can't."

The majority of Michael's time the past few days has been regulated to bed. He's gone out for a drive once or twice, but his train wreck of a life has literally brought him down. His family won't speak to him, a Mexican drug lord wants to kill him, he's locked in some hillbilly trailer with a psychopath, and he's depending on a hostage to clean a bathroom so he doesn't have to shower in a petri dish. He'd laugh if it wasn't so fucking pitiful.

At least if he stays here, he can just wait out this nightmare and fantasize about being back in Los Santos. Back with Solomon at the movie studio.

Trevor sighs and sits down on the mattress, legs kicked out wide, "This is more for me than you. I can't bear to look at you in this state, it's too pathetic. We might be out here for a few weeks and Jesus fucking Christ—I don't have the strength to be around a sad sack of shit like this for another day. I might kill myself by proxy."

"You'd be doing your future victims a favor then."

"We're going out," Trevor says, and Michael wants to object but he knows the persistence that is Trevor Philips. At least a distraction will get him some time away from this shit trailer.

They don't talk much on the ride over to the bar. Some of Trevor's weird music flows through the speakers and he seems content. A calm Trevor is always preferable. Michael's guard has been up ever since Trevor waltzed into his kitchen unannounced and it's become exhausting.

They still haven't spoken much about the past. There are shitty comments here and there from Trevor, but other than that, Michael tries to change the subject whenever possible. He practically winces whenever Brad's name pops up. It's a constant storm cloud above both their heads, the electricity of lightning palpable and waiting to strike.

God, his life was normal a month ago. He was content and miserable by the pool. His biggest problems involved bricks of weed his son had lying around and arguments with Amanda on whether or not to remodel the entire house again. Everyone keeps busting his nuts about a midlife crisis but is this really what one is like? He pulled the deck off a house for Christ's sakes. If that isn't Michael completely uninhibited like he was in his twenties, he doesn't know what is.

He runs a hand over his face. He misses those days sometimes. Maybe not the lack of money or the stench of those shit motels but he misses moving through life at his own pace. Doing whatever the fuck he wanted and when he wanted. Him and Trevor, not tied to anything other than the game. They were unstoppable.

Before shit got crazy.

Michael glances over at him through his peripheral. Trevor's head is bobbing with the beat of some 80s punk song and it's tempting to change the station and fight for radio rights, like he used to. But, he decides against it with the hope that maybe they can go a full ten minutes without arguing.

Trevor whips the truck around a corner, teetering on two wheels before the vehicle rights itself. Neither flinch.

It's weird to be in his trajectory again. When Trevor showed up, the wind was almost knocked out of him. And ever since, it's like he's been moving through life with protective gloves and handling a bomb. One wrong move and he could set it off, his life and family blown away with it.

But nothing has exploded, not yet. And maybe that's something. If Trevor wanted to kill him, he could've done it more ways than one so far. But his family is safe, and he's still breathing. They've even done a few scores together so far. Maybe not willingly, thanks to the FIB, but they're working together. That has to count for something. Maybe the proverbial bomb is a dud, after all.

Sunrays reflect off the hood of the truck as the sun sinks in the sky. They pull up to the only bar in Sandy Shores, the Yellow Jack Inn.

Inside, the place is filled with the local talent: beer bellies and hick accents abound. Wildlife wallpaper peels from the walls, cheap fans struggle to spin out the desert heat, a bikini top hangs from the ceiling, and of course—there's a fucking snake tank in the back corner.

Michael drags his feet behind Trevor, already regretting this idea. God, to be literally at any other bar in Los Santos. Even the shitty dive joints are better than this place.

"Trevor, what the hell are you doing here?" Janet asks, none too friendly and leans over the bar, peering between her patrons. Trevor clearly has a reputation here, and not a great one. Shocker.

Trevor's palms go up in defense as he pauses in the doorway, his grin an attempt at some charm, "Just showing my chubby friend around. No trouble."

She sighs, "You've said that before. Well, minus the chubby part."

No sign of Michael getting away from the insults tonight, either. Just great.

Trevor looks behind and slaps a hand on Michael's back, hard. He jerks forward, a harsh breath escaping from the back of his lungs. He glares at Trevor but just gives a pathetic wave to the bartender before scanning for exits and planning an escape strategy.

Maybe the fact Michael's in a suit softens her trust for Trevor, like she's taking pity on this normal guy associating with the town lunatic, "Fine. But first sign of trouble and you're out of here, you understand? You smashed that Chinese kid's head last time you were in here. Thank God, he lived. Not that you care, I'm sure."

"I believe that was _out_side of this fine establishment."

She just stares at him, hand on her hip, frown unwavering.

"Okayokayokay, I will be on my best behavior. Scout's honor." Trevor salutes and moves to the far end of the bar, orders two double whiskeys as he leans back on a stool, "Alright, these are on me." He slams a twenty down between them and it just about sticks to the laminate.

Michael raises an eyebrow as he bends an elbow on the bar, his posture relaxing at the thought of alcohol coming their way, "Why, you want something?"

"Yeah, I want something. I want you to quit being a miserable fuck and enjoy yourself."

"Enjoy myself? Real nice trying to enjoy myself when—"

"I swear to God, if you bring up Madrazo one more time."

"Well, it's the fuckin' predicament we're in, T. What do you expect? It's a little hard to relax when you're in exile and people are looking to kill you. What if they find us out here?"

"You act like we haven't been on the run before. We're fine out here!" He glances around with utmost surety, arms extended, "They're not going to find you. And we'll figure out a way to get you back in town, don't worry your pretty little head about that." Trevor clinks his tumbler to Michael's, downs the whiskey, and wipes his mouth with the back of his forearm, "Look at your time out here as a little vacation away from it all."

"My idea of a vacation doesn't exactly involve a scorching hot desert with frequent tours of the local meth lab," Michael places his hand on the glass, but doesn't drink.

"How's your asshole doing?"

He scoffs, "Excuse me?"

"From all the clenching, I mean. You are the most uptight mother fucker that I've had the displeasure of talking to as of late."

Michael turns towards the bar, both elbows supporting his lean, "My asshole is just fine." He knocks back his drink and turns to the bartender, holding up a hand for two more.

After a few drinks, they move to the dartboard and the whiskey is finally loosening Michael up a bit. He actually manages to crack a smile which Trevor vocalizes is a miracle in itself.

When it comes to aim, Michael is impeccable. Always has been. It was a big part of his reputation back in the day. Playing darts with him is just asking to lose, and it appeases his competitive nature when Trevor is consistently a few points behind. "Gotta work on your aim, man."

"Gotta work on your aim, man," he mocks, voice childish. "Fuck off." Trevor throws another and he's just off the bullseye, where Michael's dart already sits.

Michael chuckles as they continue, shocked he's enjoying Trevor's company without worrying about what will go wrong for once. Could be the booze, "So, what's going on with Patricia?" He asks, shoulder against the wall. They switched to beer and it quickly gets warm due to the lack of air conditioning in here.

"Well," Trevor starts, yanking each dart out of the board, "She's a beacon of light in this hopeless world. A woman of grace and divinity. An angel that walks among us. What else ya need?"

"That's dramatic."

"It's not. She's perfection and deserves more than that fucking turd she's married to." Trevor crosses his arms, dart feathers peeking through his fingertips, "What's with the questioning?"

Michael pauses before bringing the bottle up to his lips, holding Trevor's eye, "This is all temporary while we're out here, T."

"Like I don't know that?"

He takes a long swig before continuing, "I just know how you get, alright? Don't get too attached."

"No," Trevor moves closer, eyebrows sinking, and he points two fingers into Michael's chest, "you don't know how I get. You haven't known how I get for the past nine fucking years."

"Alright, alright. Jesus." Michael holds his hands up in surrender, "Can we go five fuckin' minutes without you bringing that up, huh? If you want this shit to be a 'vacation,' let's take a break from that too and just fuckin' relax."

Trevor's stare lightens up and he takes a step back to the dart line to continue the game. He closes one eye, tongue poking out the side of his mouth and throws. This one hits the bullseye, "Maybe. Get us some more drinks and I'll think about it."

They spend the rest of the night at the bar and stay until closing. It's the first evening they both have a good night's sleep. And in the morning, Michael gets his overdue shower in a clean bathroom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Day Five.**

Trevor is inside his trailer, sitting on the couch with Patricia at his side. The pair watches television, some telenovela she likes. He sits through it happily, not necessarily paying attention, but just enjoying her company. Michael hasn't been around since this morning.

He's amazed at how beautiful she is, how she carries herself with such confidence, almost ethereal. And the plus side is, she may _actually_ enjoy his company too. Whenever he looks at her, there's no fear in her eyes. She seems curious, tranquil, genuinely interested in what he has to say. It's such a nice change of pace that it speeds up his heart rate more than he'd like to admit.

She warmed up to him and Michael quickly. Even had the balls to smack Trevor in the face for huffing gasoline last night. You have to respect that in a woman and hoo boy, if she ain't a lady that deserves all his respect and more.

It's been an interesting few days. He's had the wonderful company of Patricia, who went from a hostage to something else entirely almost overnight, and he's had Michael all to himself.

Ever since he's come back from the dead, there's been an anger festering within Trevor when it comes to Michael. It sits in the pit of his stomach, lying in wait. Just looking at him sometimes, there's such an impulse to put a fist through a wall because of what a lying, fake turd Michael's become. He used to be such a no bullshit kind of guy. Strong, driven, organized, angry. He was a leader. Trevor admired him. And now, fuck—admiration certainly isn't the word he associates with this walking, talking imitation of his best friend.

Trevor knows he doesn't have all the answers to what went down in Ludendorf, he's not an idiot. Something's up and he's going to have to corner Michael and squeeze the truth out of his fat neck at some point.

But out here, it's been a bit different than it was in LS. Less tension. His anger is still rife, but he can feel it slowly beginning to hibernate. These past few days, old memories have been swimming through Trevor like a parasite. Eating away at frustration and replacing holes with forgotten feelings from long ago. Any thoughts of Brad or the FIB have taken a back seat to this wave of nostalgia he can't seem to suppress. It's like old times, bickering with this sap of a best friend as they figure out how to kill time. And despite all the complaining that spills out of Michael's mouth, Trevor thinks that parasite may be eating away at Michael's walls, too.

"What's on your mind, Trevor?"

He's knocked out of his train of thought and turns to Patricia who's looking up at him with painted fingernails crossed in her lap, "Oh, just thinking about old times with our crabby roommate."

She smiles softly, "You two have been friends for a while?"

Trevor nods, "Yeah, we met when we were twenty. Then we were best buddies for oh, fifteen years before he decided to move to LS and change his name to something more akin to his reptilian form." He looks down at her and grins, both rows of teeth shining at her, "But! We don't need to get into that. Yes, I've known him a looooong time."

"Friendships are important. Especially those formed so long ago."

"That's what I'm saying! See, you get it. You'd think that fat fuck would. He's so selfish that he's basically incapable of thinking of others. Maybe he wouldn't be so miserable if he'd realize it. Loyalty is fucking important."

She nods, and scans his face, searching his eyes. "He hurt you."

Trevor looks away, towards the television. There's a woman weeping in front of a mustachioed man in a bright suit as the climax of the episode rolls on.

The statement catches him off guard. It's jarring, someone showing _real_ concern for him and his feelings. He swallows and can't control the fact that his pulse increases just a little faster, "He claimed _he_ was hurt—fucking _dead_—and let me mourn him for nine years." Trevor's eyebrows furrow and he looks down, voice less theatrical from its usual ebb and flow, "Yeah. He might've hurt me."

She keeps her gaze on him, attention unwavering despite the sobbing on screen, "Will you forgive him?"

"You kind of need an apology to forgive someone and I've yet to get anything close to that out of his pudgy mouth." He runs a hand over his face, turning back to her, "I don't know. We're going to have to talk about it at some point, we just haven't yet. Not really. And I don't want to bring it up while we're out here. It's nice to have some beers together and not argue about the elephant in the room for once."

She turns to the TV for a moment before bringing her eyes back to him. She smiles, "You are very mature, Trevor."

His eyes widen. That's a first.

"My husband, and a lot of men in general, close their feelings away from the world. You are so free when you speak. Unbridled and true." She reaches out and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. The touch is foreign but ignites such a warmth to his fingertips he can't help but smile, "You are a sensitive soul."

How did he get so lucky to kidnap such a perfect woman?

**Night Five.**

Michael is on the porch of the Philips' trailer, knocking back a beer and trying his best to relax in this heat. The cheap air unit inside doesn't do much other than cycle dust around the place. He's better off out here. At least with the sun going down soon, it's not as hot as usual. There's an actual breeze coming through. This is the first time since he's been exiled that relaxation seems possible. When his eyes close, he can almost picture sitting poolside instead.

He's ditched the suit, since it's not exactly viable for the desert. Sucked it up and went back to the discount store and Suburban. He's opted for open shirts, forgoing the t-shirt beneath, his chest and abdomen exposed through the center cut, unbuttoned. And the shorts and boat shoes are more comfortable than creased pants and Oxfords anyway.

Ron has been pacing back and forth, asking Michael every ten minutes or so if he's seen or heard from Trevor. After the fifth repeated question, Ron takes the hint that no, he doesn't know where Trevor is and more importantly, he doesn't want to be bothered. So, Ron keeps his distance towards the back of the trailer and shoots his hand gun at empty bottles. He misses most of them.

At some point between beers number four and five, punk rock echoes through Sandy Shores. The Bodhi appears, screeches to a halt with a spin and misses the trailer's aluminum fence by mere inches. Michael only glances at Trevor's arrival, not exactly fazed by the reckless park job, and leans further back into his seat. He keeps his sight on the sun covering the vast desert, shadows of cacti lining the sand, and he's actually thankful for the slight tint in his bargain bin sunglasses.

"Trevor!" Ron yells, almost stumbling in his sandals to greet his CEO, "I missed you man, listen—"

Trevor turns off the ignition and swings the door open, almost punting Ron in the process, "No, _you_ listen." The door slams shut and Ron stumbles backwards, "Take the night off, Ron."

Ron stares at him, almost hurt and unsure what to do with his hands as he looks at Trevor, to Michael, and back to Trevor, "A night off?"

Trevor leans a hand on the hood of the truck, bending forward into Ron's face, eyes wide, "Yeah, a night off. Do you not know what that fucking means?"

Ron backs off, hands slightly raised, "Of course, boss. Absolutely. I know what that means. I just, I don't know what to do with a night off?"

Trevor extends both arms wide, "Do whatever the fuck you want! The world is your oyster. Gargle some balls for all I care, just get the fuck away from my trailer."

He's already nodding and backing away, "Sure thing, boss. I'll see you tomorrow."

Trevor waves as Ron quickly retreats next door, "Good boy!" He stands there and watches Ron flee, a satisfied gleam filling his face.

Michael laughs lightly at the little scene, tending to his beer. Trevor really has that poor guy terrified into submission. He briefly wonders what exactly Trevor had to do to make a man crumble into that sort of state.

Jesus Christ, he doesn't have the imagination to figure that one out.

Trevor dusts off his bright tank top at the chest and proceeds to skip up the steps of the trailer. With utmost swiftness, Trevor snatches Michael's beer straight from his grip and blocks his view of the sun sinking lower in the sky with a casual lean on the railing.

Michael lets out an annoyed sigh at the stolen beer and reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. He strikes the bottom of the pack with his palm a few times to tighten the tobacco in the papers.

Trevor finishes Michael's beer in one go, "Well you look nice and somber, as per usual."

"Yeah well, there ain't much else to do around here." He lights a cigarette and takes in a deep inhale. The first hit from a cigarette is always his favorite. The tobacco is smooth, light, the burn not set into the rest of the stick yet.

"What are you talking about? There's plenty to do out here!" He tosses the empty beer bottle behind him and it crashes against the front of his truck, shattering to pieces. He pays no mind, "You're just so desensitized by that fake fuck of a town you've been in that you forgot what _real_ America looks like anymore."

Michael arches an eyebrow high above his lenses, "'Real' America? God, you really are a hipster."

"HEY!" Trevor roars, fists immediately at his sides, "Knock that shit off alright? I heard enough of that from you the other day."

Michael smirks. He did get a pretty good rise out of Trevor with a few simple comments. It was hard to resist prodding the beast, but he leaves it alone for now and grabs another beer from the box, tossing it over. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. What's your idea of shit to do out here other than drinks at the Yellow Jack Shithole or making meth?"

"Plenty, look around!" He twists the beer cap off and gestures to the desert, "Use your imagination."

Michael leans forward and looks up and down the road, back to Trevor, "There's a tumbleweed we could kick around. That sounds like quite a night."

Trevor rolls his eyes and downs half the bottle, lips glistening with beer, "God, you are such a sarcastic prick."

Michael jumps to his feet, playful, switching to a poor hillbilly accent and whips out a finger gun, "We could go shoot some coyotes, WOO!"

Trevor holds back a smile, his look struggling to stay stern, "Don't make fun of my people, okay? Those are my _clients_."

Michael drops the accent and looks at him, eyes serious and desperate to quell his boredom, "Come on, Trev. If we gotta be out here, let's do something. I'm bored out of my fuckin' mind. Besides, anything to get away from this goddamn place," he waves not so lovingly to the trailer and takes another long drag off his cigarette.

"Again, with the insults. Hm." He pauses for a long moment. "Okay, so we skip the bar tonight. We're right by the Alamo sea, we could steal a boat—"

Michael interrupts, instantly excited, "Now we're talking! I haven't been on a boat since Jimmy pulled that fuckin' stunt of his. Let's do that."

Trevor's smile finally escapes him and he's full blown grinning at Michael, "Finally feeling free-spirited out here, Mikey? Embracing your criminal instincts?"

Michael rolls his eyes, "If we're stuck way the hell out here, I guess why the fuck not?"

"What if I'm busy, huh? I'm not your beck and call boy when you're bored."

Michael looks at him, deadpan, "You ain't busy."

"Maybe I am!" Trevor yells, "Don't assume!"

Michael's stare doesn't waver.

"Let's go steal a boat."

"Fuckin' A!" He flicks the cigarette butt off the porch and moves towards the cars.

"Wait," Trevor starts, "I gotta say goodbye to Patricia. And also 'hello,' I guess," He puts a hand on the door.

"That's still happening?" Michael asks and Trevor's shoulders hitch, clearly annoyed.

"Yeah," he retorts, "That's still happening. I love this lady, alright? Did you not get my text?"

"Yeah, yeah. I got your text. Hurry up."

x

They park the truck down the road, away from the beach.

While Trevor was in the trailer with Patricia, Michael packed the rest of the beer in the back of the truck. A genius idea at the time. But now, as they try to be discreet on the dock, passing boats owned by anyone but them, all Trevor hears behind him are beer bottles relentlessly clanging together in the box.

"Will you keep that shit quiet, M? I know it's still broad daylight but you clinking around behind me isn't fucking helping this stealth operation."

"Let's just pick a boat, alright? You'll thank me later when you're sipping back a beer on the water."

Not many people are around. There's a group of hippies on the beach having a bonfire, but thankfully, they're on the other side of boat view. Michael and Trevor walk along, keeping it casual as if either of them could own anything lining the dock.

They choose the last in the row for an easier getaway. With a quick glance around from both, they hop in and Trevor makes his way towards the engine to get to work on the wiring.

Michael keeps an eye out, looking down the dock. There's a couple at the far end, dragging bags with them. On the small chance they're stealing from this couple, Michael speaks up, "You wanna speed this up, T? We got company."

"Patience, sugar. I'm almost done."

The man at the end pauses and it looks like the couple is arguing, but before there's any time to even remotely panic, the engine revs and the boat vibrates to life, "And away we go!"

Michael lets out a whoop and jumps into the driver's seat. Trevor happily moves out of the way to the passenger side, delighted to kick his feet up with a beer while Michael enjoys driving this thing around. Trevor was never one to give a shit about boats. The sky is his home

He takes his seat next to Michael, straps the belt on and eyes Michael to do the same. Michael rolls his eyes but does it anyway, eager to get away from land.

Trevor isn't sure if it's the booze, or if Michael really is this pumped to indulge his criminal instincts. Not for a score, or to pay back a two-bit gangster, but just for the fucking fun of it. Trevor can't help but smile at the thought and his cheeks are getting sore from doing so much of it lately.

They take off and as the boat bounces on the water, he leans back and grabs two beers. He pops the top off for Michael and hands him one before doing the same with his own.

They stay like that for a while, in comfortable silence, Michael driving them nowhere in particular as the shore shrinks behind them.

The nostalgia that's been tugging at Trevor the past few days hasn't left, and now, it's in full swing. He's trying to stay mad at Michael—there's so many reasons to be pissed at the guy next to him—but in this moment, he just can't. Having Michael all to himself is just too good. Amanda and the kids are out of the picture and that's something he's been craving ever since Michael met Amanda in that fucking pit of a strip club.

He looks over at Michael, who's just peachy. The wind whips through his short hair, little strands of gray holding on for dear life. His shirt puffs out from the speed, exposing more of his chest. His face is calm, peaceful, eyes ahead with a purpose. It's nice to see him not look like he's bolted to the ground with depression for once. There's a light in his eyes that shaves years off his face.

And Trevor has to look away because his heart stops and exchanges itself with another that longed for Michael Townley many, many years ago. He thought those feelings were gone in a spiral of mourning and rage, but out here, Michael at the wheel and Trevor at his side, it's difficult not to feel that yearn again. They're the same when Michael's like this and it's an impossibility that Trevor finds anyone he can relate to. When he witnesses Michael give in and enjoy chaos, it taps into Trevor's very essence and fuck if it doesn't make him _soar_.

They hit a wave and glide through the air. Trevor raises his arms like a fucking child and Michael laughs with him. When they land back on water, waves crash around the boat and their shoulders ricochet off one another, water dripping from head to toe. Michael's shirt is so soaked it's a different shade.

At least he isn't in one of those fucking wet suits.

The sun is finally setting, and the sky fills with soft hues of pinks and orange. Trevor was always a sucker for sunsets, so he keeps his eyes glued until he realizes the boat's come to a stop and land is only visible on the horizon. He kicks his feet up on the dash, beer lose in his grip.

Michael's looking at him, "You still get all sappy with the sunsets?"

"Fuck you. I can enjoy a beautiful sunset. Just because you're a slave to your societal masculinity doesn't mean that I am." He points a hand in the direction of the sunset, looking at Michael like the dick that he is, "It's fucking gorgeous."

Michael stares for a long moment, following the tints of the sky to the colors reflecting off the gloss of the boat. He tips his beer to Trevor's with a clink, "You're right. It's fucking gorgeous."

They sit like that for a long while. The beers brought along are split between them and go fast. By the time the moon is high in the sky, they're rambling off random encounters from years almost long forgotten. Trevor makes it a point not to mention Brad.

"It was 20k."

Trevor looks at him like he's crazy, "It was 10k, you egomaniac. Don't embellish."

Michael barks a laugh at the only kind of volume eight beers gets you, "Fuck you, it was 20k. We're talking about the bank outside of Tulsa, right?"

"Yes. The one with that little guy who tried to be a hero even though he barely came up to your tits."

"Yeah! That's the one I'm talking about. That job was fuckin' 20k, man. Don't short change it. That was a great score."

"No, ya dick. It was 10k. Again, with the ego."

"It was 20 and we got 10 each."

"It was 10, and we got 3k each because we lost one of the bags on the getaway."

"The fuck, _what_? I don't remember this at all."

Trevor rolls his eyes, "Your memory was always shit, Townley." Trevor catches himself, "Mikey. Whatever the fuck your name is." It's been hard to adjust to the name change and every time he fucks it up, his hands clench and he wants to hit something. Oddly enough, not necessarily Michael, but _something_.

Michael seems to wince at the name too. It's like an unspoken boulder wedged between them, buying time until it rolls to crush one or the other.

Trevor tries to push the rage down. He can't bring himself to tap into their baggage, not even with a belly full of beer. This side of Michael comes out less often than the national fucking census and with the amount of restraint he's practicing to not give in and argue about the past should make him a candidate for canonization.

He tries to focus on the fact that despite everything, maybe he can still get his best friend back.

Michael clears his throat and tosses an empty bottle into the water, "No wonder I don't remember shit. I was probably drunk my entire twenties."

"And high on cocaine."

"That, too."

"Maybe some X."

"Some."

"And inside a _fuck_ ton of strippers."

"You done?"

"Old Wild Townley!" Trevor grins and pokes him in the side. Michael swats him away but can't help smiling back and the weight of the name is lighter.

When they return to the trailer, they both collapse into bed and fall asleep almost immediately. Each now on their respective sides.

The boat sits on the beach, overturned, miles away from the docks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Night Eight.**

"Hey, Michael," Janet says and when Trevor walks in behind, she gives him a look, still wary, "Trevor."

Michael nods to her and Trevor curtsies.

They've fallen into a pattern this past week. Patricia makes breakfast every morning and the three of them sit at the table in the corner of the trailer and eat together like a happy little family. Trevor spends his days with Patricia and Michael usually takes off and goes for a drive throughout the day, stealing cars or boats. Sometimes, he takes a drive up to Paleto Bay to digest as much detail as possible on the town they'll be robbing blind in the next few days. Anything to keep himself occupied, which is a nice change from the first few days where all he did was lay in bed.

Whenever the sun begins to set, Michael and Trevor meet up and go to Yellow Jack. It didn't take long to slip back into old habits. When there was time to kill in the early days, alcohol was always involved. Countless nights spent in bars and strip clubs, empty bottles and cases spread along motel floors.

And while Michael is a seasoned drinker, it's been getting a little out of hand this week. He hasn't blacked out at any point, but if the hangovers are anything to go by, he may be overdoing it a bit. The alcohol helps keep him centered though, relaxed. It makes time with Trevor more enjoyable because the booze is a barrier that keeps their usual bullshit far at bay. These little hangouts have actually been a nice distraction. He thought Trevor was out of his mind when he first said it, but this really has turned into some sort of fucked up vacation.

He still hates this goddamn desert, though.

"You notice a black SUV around the trailer these past few days?" Michael asks as they walk to their usual spot towards the end of the bar. It's empty for this time of day. Locals are usually spread around, already nodding out over their drinks, but there's only two people playing pool in the whole place. Both men are chunky, clad in sleeveless shirts and dirty jeans. One sports a giant mustache, handlebars turned up to the ceiling and Michael's fucking shocked that didn't grab Trevor's attention.

Trevor places his wallet by a coaster, leather frayed and thread curling from the corners. He arches an eyebrow, "No, when was that?"

"What's his face told me about it yesterday."

"It's three fucking letters. You can't handle the name 'Ron?'"

"Your _boyfriend_ mentioned something, so I kept an eye out today. I saw it swing by when you were out with Patricia. It stopped on the corner then moved out front for a few minutes. They sped away after they saw me, and the license plate looked bogus. You got someone else after you?"

"Please, who _don't_ I have after me? At least we took care of the O'Neil brothers, so that knocks them off the list. Wade sent me a text about something with the Chinese, could be them."

"It might be nothing, but I'm worried it might be Madrazo's men."

Trevor rolls his eyes and grabs one of the cold beers that's appeared in front of him. They always start with a beer and a shot of whiskey each. Michael's been tipping Janet a little more recently, so she'll quit threatening to get rid of Trevor. Normally he wouldn't blame her, but to his ever-loving surprise, Trev's actually been on his best behavior.

Trevor shakes his head, "Quit with the paranoia, it ain't Madrazo's men. If they saw your ass waddling around, we'd already be dead. Believe me, they're on a shoot to kill kind of mission. I drove within five miles of LS this morning and they were on me like stink on shit."

Michael's jaw tightens, "You went down there? We're supposed to be lying low."

"Yeahyeahyeah, I know. _But_ I was curious to see how bad the heat was. Aaand," he nods, taking a sip, "it's pretty bad."

"Jesus Christ, were you followed?"

"No, they didn't follow me. What kind of idiot do you take me for?"

Michael exhales, easing his temper down. Trevor obviously made it back, so it can't be too bad. Instead, he grabs his whiskey and holds it between them, "A very special kind."

Trevor grabs his glass and clinks it against Michael's, "Right back at ya, brother."

**Night Nine.**

Trevor sits outside in the very filthy and very moldy sofa chair at the back of his trailer. Patricia is gardening, humming to herself as she pulls weeds and trash from patches of dirt littering the sand. It calms him, like there's finally some slack in his rope. She asks him questions every now and then, but they sit peacefully as he watches her work. His little Desert Rose.

When the sun begins its plunge into the horizon, colors changing from bright white to a softer yellow, his diaphragm tightens into something thick and heavy, a vibration swimming at the base of his lungs.

He bounces out of the chair, "I'm gonna head in, then me and Mikey are out of here. You need anything before I go, my angel?"

She smiles at him, "Be safe."

"Always," and he shoots her a million-dollar grin before skipping inside.

Michael is in the bedroom, sitting on the side of the bed and tying one of his shoes. His hair hangs wet over his forehead from a fresh shower.

Trevor thumbs towards the front door as it swings shut behind him, "Hey there, handsome. We headed to the bar?" The frame of the doorway creaks as he leans against it, splintered and strained from years of neglect.

Michael scoffs at the epithet and grabs his second shoe, "Yeah, gimme a minute."

Trevor crosses arms over his chest, his t-shirt bright white and wrinkle free. It's kind of nice wearing clean clothes now that Patricia has been taking care of him. He's even bathed two days in a row and holy hell if that isn't a change. She seems proud of him when he takes these little steps towards self-betterment, so he does it for her.

Also, maybe for Michael—so he has one less thing to fucking complain about.

"Heard there was a robbery at Sandy Shore's very own 24/7."

Michael looks at him, face indifferent, then back to his shoes, "Imagine that."

Trevor can't help the smirk sliding to the side of his lips, "Surprised at you. Awful close to where we're 'lying low.' I can hit that place with a grenade from here."

"I'm sure you have."

"Maybe I have. _Maybe_ I've robbed that place more times than I can count. Not necessarily for money, but because $3.50 for a chocolate bar is a fucking crime all on its own. It's the _principal_."

A subtle smile creeps onto Michael's face, "So you do still eat those things." He leans down to the plastic bag beside the bed that reads HAVE A NICE DAY, filled with crumpled bills and a few aluminum cans. He pulls out a candy bar, tossing it to Trevor.

Trevor catches it, instantly delighted. He peels the wrapper and takes a seat beside Michael, getting chocolate all over his hands, "Ya know, a robbery? Without me? I'm offended. I bring you into my home and you don't even offer a guy an invite for a good time?"

Michael watches him lick his fingers and devour the thing like he hasn't eaten in days, "It was a bit impulsive."

"Hm, that right?"

"I was just getting a soda—"

"A _soda_? You fucking child."

"Says the grown man with chocolate all over his face."

Trevor grins wide, brown remnants sitting on his teeth. He runs his tongue over the front of them and wipes his mouth with his forearm.

"Yeah, I wanted a damn soda. So, I went to buy one and there was some punk kid at the register. He was mouthier than needed for a fuckin' clerk, so I pulled my gun on him. Not much… there was only $200 in the register." He's less enthusiastic about the endeavor as the story goes on, guilt clearly starting to settle. Trevor has to act quick or Michael is going to be in a fucking mood all night and Jesus Christ, no one needs that.

He jumps to his feet, "Get up."

Michael backs away from the sudden movement, unsettled, "Why?"

"We're upgrading from convenience stores."

A few miles outside of Sandy Shores, they pull into a dark parking lot, street lights adorned with shattered bulbs hanging above. And as soon as they're in a parking space, Michael wastes no time to voice his disappointment.

"Really?" He asks and leans forward to look through the windshield. In buzzing green letters, the word LIQUOR peers down at them, reflecting off the hood of the sedan they boosted on the way over here. "This is more of a lateral move than an upgrade from convenience stores, Trev."

"Alright, give me a break. This is what I got on short notice."

Michael exhales loudly but doesn't move, keeping his eyes on the joint, "This place isn't going to have shit. There can't be more cash in here than what I pulled earlier."

Trevor turns off the ignition with a shrug. He admits, it's nothing impressive, but it's something, "The take isn't the point here. We're here for the thrill of it all."

"I'm not sure 'thrill' is the right word."

He ignores him, "Let's get a plan going. No need to be impulsive with this one."

Michael looks around, assessing the parking lot. There's only one car other than theirs. Inside, there's a bored clerk peering down into his phone at the counter. Bottles of assorted liquor line the wall behind him, various shades and colors. No movement throughout the aisles, "Looks like it might just be the cashier. They got a safe in the back?"

Trevor grins with what looks like rows of teeth, a shark in his own habitat, "That's the upgrade, Mikey. May not be much, but at least we get a couple hundred, maybe a thousand, out of the safe."

Michael nods his head, considering the options, eyes already more awake than a moment ago, "This guy gonna know how to open it?"

Trevor peers inside, eyebrows firm and gaze darting throughout all areas of the store, "Should. I think this guy is the owner. I only ever see one other employee in here and it ain't this guy. It's some dopey teenager who's too young to work here anyway."

"Alright, I'm in. You grabbed the bag from earlier, right? Those masks should be in there." Michael arches his body backwards, searching the back seat.

Trevor rolls his eyes, "Yes, I grabbed the bag. Ya know, what ever happened to good old fashion ski masks? They're the stereotype for a reason. They're effective and—"

Michael's already holding up two masks: a hockey goalie, and a monkey smoking a cigarette.

"—less ridiculous."

Michael smirks at him and Trevor just knows he's getting a kick out of this. Fucking bastard.

"Alright, fine," Trevor exhales, reaching forward. "Give me my monkey."

Always one for flair and dramatics when it comes to criminality, Trevor kicks the door open so hard the bell flies off the hinge. The owner startles, dropping his phone to the ground, and Michael is the first to speak while Trevor takes his shotgun and shoots a security camera at the entrance of the store.

"Hands up! No sudden movements," Michael walks towards the counter, his step controlled and even. Arms fixed, gun cocked right between the eyes, "This'll be quick and painless if you cooperate."

His hands go up, face a ghostly white.

Michael tosses an empty black bag by the register, and takes note of the guy's nametag, "Mark, is it? Alright, _Mark_—everything from the register. Now."

Trevor moves quickly while Michael is up front and scans each aisle with precision, both slotting right back into their respective roles they know all too well. There were only two objectives working a job before focusing on the getaway: secure the score and secure the perimeter.

Towards the back, by a line of freezer doors, he spots the second camera and moves quick. When he shoots, it explodes in a wave of smoke and wiring before the empty shotgun shell drops to the tiled floor.

Michael's pistol is steady as the guy places all the money into the bag, hands shaking, "Move it!" Mark stumbles but tries his best to recover and move faster. When he returns the bag to Michael, there's a flash of relief across his face, like he thinks this is over. He goes to step back but Michael inches his gun further into his face, "Not so fast, we're not done yet." He pauses, but doesn't move his gaze, eyes warning. He calls behind him, "How we doin', T?"

Trevor's head darts to all directions of the store and looks like it was only the two cameras. This place was just begging to be robbed. "All clear, M," Trevor says, moving to the entrance to keep an eye on the parking lot. And honestly, to get a closer look at Michael work because if it isn't a fucking _sight_.

"Good. Now, buddy, listen," Michael starts, grabbing the bag, "We know you got a safe in the back and you're going to open it for us."

Sweat beads trickle down the clerk's forehead and it almost makes Trevor laugh, "There's no s-saf—"

Michael cuts him off. The bullet bursts from the barrel and clips the top cartilage of Mark's right ear. He yelps as it collides with a bottle on the shelf of the back wall, liquid and glass exploding like a firework. Mark's hand flies to his ear, blood slipping through his fingertips as he practically ducks behind the counter.

Michael doesn't waiver, "Now, I can move my aim an inch to the right, split your skull open all over that expensive scotch there, and use dynamite on the safe instead. It's your call."

Mark starts to move, hands held in the air and vibrating with fear as blood trickles down his neck into the collar of his polo shirt. He slowly steps from behind the counter, the sights of the gun following his every movement and glass crunches beneath his feet as he heads for the back room, Michael close on his heels.

Trevor is fucking beaming. This is where Michael belongs. This is where he _thrives_. Not rotting away in LS, sipping on whiskey and choking down ice cream. Townley, back in action, no bullshit.

Trevor could just about pop a boner right now.

Keeping his gun trained on the door as Michael works the clerk and the safe, he hears a roar in the night before he can even see them. "Fuck," he exhales behind the monkey mask, breath hot. Six motorcycles turn into the parking lot.

_Fucking_ Lost country.

x

The take isn't much. Michael's assuming it's around $1500 by the look of the stacks in the bag. It's still more than he expected, so it's a nice surprise. As he's about to walk out of the back room and leave this poor guy be, that's when he hears Trevor yelling and multiple shots from multiple guns and other guys screaming and _fuck_—

He takes the butt of his pistol and smashes it into the back of Mark's head before he can become a problem too. He falls to the floor, unconscious.

"T!" Michael yells, but he doesn't hear anything other than shouting from what sounds like at least two other guys and Trevor's voice ringing clear above them all.

"BEND OVER AND GRAB YOUR TAINTS, YOU PRICKS. I'M GOIN' IN DRY."

Goddammit. _Fucking_ Trevor—can't get a job done without it ending in a blood bath. And here's Michael, the local idiot, thinking he might have actually been enjoying Trevor's company lately.

He moves out of the back room, keeping cover where possible. It's not discernible how many people they're dealing with, or if any of them know he's in the store. He bends down by shelves of bright wine, and when he gets a view of the parking lot, it's already a total fucking mess.

There are six bikes, all overturned, some smoking. Three guys look to be dead on the ground, blood pooling from chests. One of them only has a pile of flesh and blood for a face, clear that Trevor's shotgun must have gotten him at close range. The monkey mask lies on the ground, Trevor's identity completely exposed, and it makes Michael's blood boil even further.

He takes a deep breath, runs outside, and joins Trevor in cover behind their sedan, a few bullets flying too close. The car's tires are popped, windows smashed, and bullet holes line the complete side and hood. The scent of gas fills the air. Trevor doesn't even notice him come out, reloading his shotgun with more shells.

"What the _fuck_, T!"

Trevor's once white shirt is stained in great splatters of blood, hands slick with more of the same. He can't tell if it's Trevor's own blood or from the bikers. Most likely, it's the latter.

When Trevor finally meets his eyeline, Michael can tell—Trevor's not here with him, not at all. Pupils are wide, black, pulsing, and Michael _knows_ that look. Trevor's lost in a vacuum of rage and there's no getting him out of it until it's only Trevor and Michael left alive in this parking lot. "Goddammit," he huffs, and takes aim, clipping a biker at the far corner in the throat.

Things end quickly for the Lost thanks to a few more blasts from a shotgun and Michael's precision. Once the shooting stops and the ringing in Michael's ears is all he has to go by, Trevor lets out a guttural growl, practically shaking fury from his shoulders, "HOO BOY! What a rush, huh?"

Michael doesn't say anything. He keeps his eyes forward, scanning the bodies, mind racing. Of course. Of fucking _course_ things would end up like this. A simple fucking job, yet with Trevor at the helm, it has to end with a body count. He rips the hockey mask from his face and throws it to the ground. It snaps in half between their feet.

Trevor must be able to tell that Michael is pissed because that's when the light comes back to his eyes and he blinks a few times, searching Michael's face.

Michael wipes down his pistol with the hem of his shirt and disassembles it. He throws a piece in a nearby trashcan and extends an arm back to throw the other half onto the rooftop of the store. He can feel Trevor's eyes following him and all he wants to do is get home and down a bottle of whiskey. Himself. He might even sleep in his fucking car tonight.

"Mikey? Where are you going?"

Michael snaps and turns around, "Where am I _going_? I'm fuckin' leaving. There are bodies all around us, an unconscious clerk inside, and we got a bag full of stolen cash. Excuse me, you crazy _fuck_, I don't want to be part of the welcoming party for when the fuckin' cops get here!"

He quickly turns back and continues, his stride heavy and furious. He cracks his neck a few times to try and relax, but it does nothing. They can't take the sedan, it's totaled. They're going to have to take one of these fucking bikes and if that doesn't just top everything right the fuck off. Hopefully, it doesn't track extra attention from more assholes in leather vests as they make their way back through the desert.

He grabs the only bike that's not smoking, hoping a stray bullet didn't nick the gas tank and it's still usable. When it revs to life, he makes it a point not to look at Trevor and just waits. He doesn't want to be around him right now, let alone squeezed together on a motorcycle.

Fuck, his life was normal a few weeks ago.

To Michael's surprise, there's no sarcastic comment or contentious statement from Trevor once he's on the bike. Neither say anything and it's quiet, only the hum of the motorcycle reverberating through divots of the desert. And he's so angry, he barely notices Trevor's bloody arms wrapped around his waist. He ignores it and focuses on the total shit situation they've fallen into tonight.

A fucking robbery, with Trevor, did he really think it would end another way?

After a mile or two away from the scene, Michael's anger and adrenaline bubbles to the tip of his tongue, boiling over the point of restraint and he's the first to break their silence.

"_FUCK!"_ Michael bangs a palm into the handle bars, "We didn't have to kill them, Trev! Jesus Christ, why does everything have to turn into a fuckin' slaughter with you? There was a door in the back, we could've avoided this shit. This was a simple goddamn job."

Trevor tightens his grip, and lays his chin on Michael's back, just between his shoulder blades, "They would've killed me anyway. They got it out for me." His voice is calm, totally placid.

It makes Michael's heart pump faster, his temper shifting into the driver's seat, "They wouldn't even have known it was you if you didn't take your fuckin' mask off!"

"I took it off because I wanted those fuckers to _know_ it was me." Trevor turns in his seat, looking behind even though all that's left at the rear are fading white lines and darkness, "Shit, I left the mask back there. I was kind of warming up to the little guy."

Michael lets out a frustrated growl and pinches the bridge of his nose with his finger and his thumb, "We need to clean this shit up with Madrazo so I can get back to LS."

"Hey!" Trevor gives his grip a squeeze, jostling Michael's stomach. He turns his chin to Michael's shoulder, voice in his ear, "Cheer up. We just had a fun little score. The bikers were an unfortunate occurrence. But, we're in Lost territory, so it was a risk."

Michael jerks his shoulder to shove Trevor away. He backs off, but keeps his arms locked in place to hold on, "A fucking _risk_? We could've talked about that before the job, got a plan together. Fuck, that was amateur shit."

"No," Trevor starts, voice low and warning, "that was _not_ amateur shit. _That_ was fucking smooth sailing until the parking lot. We were in and out of that store in under 5 minutes. That's gotta be a record."

Michael clenches his teeth, his molars grinding together, "Doesn't matter. I just killed six people in the middle of the road. I don't know how the cops aren't after us yet."

"Correction: you killed two people, I killed four."

"Goddammit! This is not a game!"

"Fuck you! You keep complaining about being bored out here! Excuse the fuck out of me for mixing it up a bit."

"The remedy for boredom should _not_ be a fuckin' massacre!"

"Quit with the dramatics, alright? We would need more bodies for it to be classified a massacre. Or, wait—we might've _just_ hit the quota."

Michael almost stops the bike and leaves him behind. He almost confesses this is why shit had to go down the way it did. That he can't do this outlandish shit anymore or put up with all this unpredictability and bloodshed. Michael growls and it grows into a grating yell, all of his frustration swelling together in a whirlwind of irritation, fury, and regret, "Fuck! FUCK._ FUCK_!"

There's a moment of silence as Michael tries to focus on the wind hitting his cheeks to quell the heat fuming through his body.

He feels Trevor's chin on his shoulder again, voice softer, "I'm sorry, Mikey."

He barely hears him over the motorcycle and doesn't say anything. His eyes stay on the road, entire body wound tight and stiff.

"You're right. I should've told you this is biker territory. We could've planned for it."

As the road stretches further in front of them, Michael can tell Trevor is waiting for something, but still, he stays silent. The ringing in his ears is getting louder, and it's not from the gunfire anymore. His anger reverberates through his blood stream and what'd Dr. Friedlander say? Count to ten? Fuck if that ever works.

One. Two.

"Come on. I said I'm sorry, alright? What do you care about those bikers anyway? They interfered with the score, so I took them out. It's what I _do_. If the cops had shown, I'd have done the same thing and you'd be happy as a clam."

Three. Four. Five. Fucking _six_.

"Can you not be pissed at me?"

"God_dammit_, Trevor. Just give me a fuckin' second."

Seven. Eight. Nine. Fuck it.

He exhales, jaw tight, but he manages to push things down after a moment or two. Trevor's not entirely wrong. Shit went south, they handled it and got away. The job was successful.

When he finally speaks, he sounds defeated, "You can hold onto the seat, you know."

"_Oh_," Trevor's grip tightens around Michael's waist and he lays a cheek against Michael's spine, taking in a deep and exaggerated breath, "but I feel much safer this way. There's just so much to hold onto."

Michael rolls his eyes, but he manages to smile in a thin and tired line, "Yeah, fuck off."

Michael drops Trevor back home, grabs his car, a pint of whiskey, and takes a long drive. At some point, after the pint is an empty plastic bottle alongside the road, he pulls over and passes out over his steering wheel. When he wakes up at 3:30am with a stiff neck, stuck somewhere between a brewing hangover and still drunk, he heads back to the trailer, exhausted.

Trevor is lying in bed and Michael can't tell if he's awake or not in the dark. Stripping down to his tank and boxers, he crawls onto his usual side. As he tries to focus and keep anxious thoughts at bay so he can sleep, he feels Trevor roll over and curl into him. His forehead presses against Michael's shoulder, arms tucked beneath his chin and a leg atop Michael's thigh. Trevor moves a lot in his sleep so Michael's still not sure if this is a conscious thing or not, but he's too drained to give a shit.

He's asleep within minutes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Day Ten.**

"What the fuck are you wearing?"

To start, Trevor's suit is entirely too small. The eggplant shade of the thing and the mustard yellow shirt clash in all the wrong ways. His exposed ankles sport argyle socks to top off wing tipped shoes.

"The fuck's it look like I'm wearing?" Trevor says, patting down his lapels in the doorway of the bathroom, aviators shining as sunlight peers through the trailer windows. The single button of the jacket struggles to stay fastened, "It's a suit."

Michael can't take his eyes off him. He's ridiculous. "Yeah, you're _trying_ to wear a suit. You shop in the petite section?"

Trevor snorts, "The petite section? You think the stores around here got that?"

"_Why_ are you wearing that?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but Patricia and I are going on a date."

He pauses, "A date?"

"Yes, Michael, a _date_."

Michael clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes. He walks towards the couch and sits in a huff, "Don't you think you're taking this a bit far?"

Any time the topic of Patricia comes up, it sets Trevor off. Michael knows that Trevor doesn't like to be told what to do but honestly, what the fuck is he thinking starting up some weird romance with Madrazo's wife? The last thing Michael needs is to make this situation more complicated with that psycho.

"Will you quit shoving your fat nose into it? It's _none_ of your business," Trevor snaps and heads back to the bathroom. Michael can hear the flow of the sink on the other side of the wall.

He stays put on the couch but raises his voice clear over the running water. Trevor needs to hear this, "It complicates things, so yeah, it's my business. She's gotta go back to Martin at some point. She can't stay here forever."

Trevor walks out of the bathroom, foaming at the mouth with toothpaste and a brush hanging loose from his lips, "Yeah, well maybe she doesn't want to go back."

That makes Michael's heart skip a beat. She's the only leverage they have to get back to the city. If she's not returned, he can kiss Los Santos and that movie studio goodbye, "She say that?"

"No, but I'm going to ask her to stay."

Michael leans forward, elbow on his knee and lips tight, "The fuck you are."

"_What?_" He takes the toothbrush out of his mouth and grips it tight. Despite the sunglasses, Michael can see daggers behind the shades.

"Don't even fuckin' think about it, T. There's no chance I'm getting back to LS if you two want to keep playing house out here."

Trevor growls, eyebrows low and dangerous. Michael just stares at him, pointed. This isn't a fucking game. Trevor takes a step forward and aims the toothbrush in Michael's face, "I guess we'll just go ahead and forget the fact she makes me _happy_. Of course, you somehow make this about you. At least you're fucking consistent."

Michael recoils a bit as the toothbrush drips to the floor, opaque water almost hitting his shoes. He swats it away and stands, eyes just about level with Trevor's. He couldn't give less of a fuck if she makes Trevor happy. She's a goddamn _hostage_, "Don't ask her to stay. She's married, it is what it is. Fuckin' accept it."

Before Trevor can say anything else, Michael pushes past him and leaves, slamming the front door shut behind him.

**Night Twelve.**

Trevor has been dealing with two very different people since leaving LS: Sober Michael and Drunk Michael.

Sober Michael is a fucking bore. He's depressed, cranky and always has something to complain about. It's Madrazo this, his family _that_. It's fucking draining. And if Trevor has to hear him bitch about this desert one more time, he might slip something into Michael's drink just to shut him up.

He might do that anyway. Shits and giggles and all that.

Now, Drunk Mikey—that's something else entirely. Something looser. Something that only awakens at night with the slippery slope of too much whiskey. Trevor practically counts down the minutes until this other side starts to rear its big, fat head.

And when Drunk Mikey comes out to play, that's when Trevor gets his hopes up. Things seem possible, like Michael can slot right back into Trevor's life again, the way they were. Ron and Wade are fine, they're obedient. Trevor's established an international and prestigious business with those two morons after all.

But nothing compares to Michael.

They work so fucking well together and it makes Trevor _furious_. That he was given something so precious and it was taken away because Michael was too afraid to face the truth—that he likes this. Living uninhibited, his foot on the gas. That he can only find time to exhale when he's in the middle of gun fire or up to his knees in stolen money. He's not this old, middle-aged wimp that he keeps pretending to be. He doesn't fit into that mold, but the stubborn fuck sure keeps trying.

The two are back at the Inn, sticking with their routine of heavy drinking after the sun disappears into the night. The weight of a heist hangs over their heads. Three more days and those clowns up in Paleto Bay won't know what hit them.

"How you feeling about this bank job?" Michael asks, bringing his tumbler of whiskey to his lips and taking a sip. It's about four fingers full. Those extra tips for Janet really have been paying off. Trevor might even think she's starting to _like_ him—it's wild.

Trevor's glass is just as full, "Great! I'm excited to use that mini gun. It's been years since I had my hands on one of those. I miss the vibration."

Michael scoffs a laugh, "Yeah, you would miss that shit. I just hope we can pull it off."

"Where's the confidence, man? It's me and you." Trevor leans over on his stool and jostles Michael's shoulder with his own, "And now we got the kid—we're unstoppable!"

A lopsided smile slides easily to Michael's lips and Drunk Mikey is starting to peak out from the shadows. Trevor has to bring his glass back up to his lips to hide his smile. "You got that right. He's a good kid. Got a good head on his shoulders."

"And _loyal_."

"Yeah, yeah," Michael downs his glass with a hiss from the burn, "and fuckin' loyal."

The bar is oddly packed tonight. A good chunk of people Trevor doesn't recognize, which is strange for this place. The usuals are still here, but now, all seats are taken to the point that people have to stand around and mingle with their drinks. Thanks to his reputation, the few who recognize him keep their distance. Still, it's more crowded than he prefers.

But he doesn't mind too much as he keeps his attention on Michael, catching glimpses of Drunk Mikey awakening from his slumber. He's going on about some movie that douche Solomon is working on, but Trevor doesn't really care. He sits and listens, jumping in with a few sarcastic comments here and there, but nonetheless, he listens. And waits.

And maybe Michael is getting a little handsy the higher his drink count, making it a point to touch Trevor on the shoulder, or on the arm. And the higher Trevor's count gets, the more he sees this as a game. How much can he lean into this until Michael realizes what he's doing?

Michael's legs are spread wide, relaxed, their stools edged close. It gets to the point that Trevor is so close, his one leg is between both of Michael's, knee dangerously close to his crotch. Michael actually has a hand on Trevor's leg, like he needs it for support.

Trevor knows he doesn't.

Janet gives him a curious look and Trevor just flashes a bright as fuck grin and holds his hand up to signify two more glasses.

It's always Michael in control when it comes to the two of them and this drunken closeness they skirt around. Always Michael seeing how far he wants this to go before he backs off and falls back into his pit of repression. Only giving Trevor a little before he pulls away. It was always infuriating and intoxicating all the same for Trevor but he absolutely fucking _hates_ that no matter what, it's Michael calling the shots. And it's not like him to accept when he's not in control. But it's what this asshole has always done, and despite the years left behind, old habits die hard.

There were only a handful of times that Michael took things a step further from heavy flirting, even though that was years before he was a ghost since Michael's played that hand. If there's a possibility Trevor can pull that side out of Drunk Mikey while they're out here though, he's certainly going to try.

Michael suddenly starts laughing and he takes his hand off Trevor's leg to wipe some of the sweat from the back of his neck. Michael can't take the heat out here like Trevor can.

"The fuck are you laughing at?"

"You used to have so much hair, bro. What happened?"

That makes Trevor chuckle. Anyone else dare say that to him, he'd smash their face into the bar, "Are you fucking kidding me, Townley?"

Michael reaches over and tussles the thin patch of hair at the front of Trevor's head, his movements sluggish.

Trevor lets Michael linger in his space until Michael pulls back. "I'd rather have less hair than the extra pounds you're packing there, Pork Chop." He pokes Michael in the stomach.

Michael sways a bit, but keeps his tone light, "Fuck you."

"Yeah, you wish."

Michael rolls his eyes and downs his drink. Trevor follows suit.

When his glass is back on the bar, that's when he sees the mustache. This giant, black monstrosity, pointed upwards, shining with grease and wax. And this guy is staring right at Trevor from the other end of the bar like Trevor is the fucking problem. Old handsome Trevor, who doesn't need to advertise on his face just how into counter-culture he really is. What a pretentious, attention-seeking, wanna-be-ironic, fucking _asshole_—

"Trev?" Michael asks, moving his head back into Trevor's eyeline.

Trevor snaps out of it, focus clearing when it's back on Michael, "Do you see that douchebag over there with his fucking face?"

Michael turns and rolls his eyes, "Don't start."

"Don't _start_? I'm not the one that decided 1899 was a good look by today's standards. No one is impressed! And—" he darts his head around Michael's for another look, "—he's _still_ fucking looking at me."

Who in the ever-loving _fuck_ does this guy think he is? Does he not know who he's fucking staring at? Trevor could filet this asshole into tomorrow's dinner just using one of these bar stools. Fucking, shitty _FUCKING_ hipsters.

"Don't. Start. Anything." Trevor turns towards Janet, her voice seemingly coming out of nowhere. "It's a miracle you've been this well behaved lately. Don't pull anything now or I'll have to ban you again."

Trevor growls and goes to open his mouth, but he feels Michael's hand around his bicep and it's like an owner pulling on a dog's collar. Trevor turns to him, angry, but obeys and stays quiet.

Michael is suddenly on his feet, a little wobbly, but strong, "Let's get out of here. We'll drink back home."

That sentence makes Trevor want to punch Michael but calms him all the same. One – no, Trevor doesn't need to leave. He'll do as he damn well pleases, and this guy's face deserves to make its acquaintance with the bar top. But two – two is what grounds him. _Home_. With Michael. It's the only thing that gets him outside.

They return to the trailer and indulge themselves on what beer is left in Trevor's fridge.

**Night Fourteen.**

The Paleto job is tomorrow and Michael can't sleep. Well, considering the time of night, which Michael guesses is somewhere between 3 or 4AM, the Paleto job is today. They're heading out at 10AM sharp, and he's barely slept, unable to ever sleep the night before a heist. Trevor is in the trailer, out cold, and will probably wake up right at dawn like its Christmas morning.

Michael is on the porch, sitting in the worn-down sofa he's grown so accustomed to. The sky is clear, moon lighting up the desert in a blanket of white and cascading shadows. Coyotes wail in the distance and crickets sing beneath the porch.

He's gone through four cigarettes in the past twenty minutes. He's usually calm and collected before a big job but there's always a brief period where he's a wreck and runs over detail after detail in his head. It's tradition at this point, trying to predict and prepare for all possible outcomes. He's a bit more on edge this time around due to the lack of booze in his system and how hard he's been tying it on these past two weeks. He and Trevor skipped the bar tonight in favor of a clear head for the morning and the signs of alcohol withdrawal are already settling in. Hands are shaky and he can see the vibration of heart palpitations through his tank. Still, he prefers this over carrying 50lbs of gear through a shootout with a fuzzy hangover.

Trevor insisted on bringing this guy Chef along. Apt name, and Michael can take a solid guess on how Trevor knows him, but whatever. Trevor vouched for him and if there's one thing that Trevor is good at, it's having incredibly high standards for someone who can handle a gun. So, Michael trusts him, though he's still leery of how things will go down tomorrow. It's never good practice to go with a new crew member on a job. Let alone one as big as this.

He tries hard to clear his head. Things will be fine. They have more gear than they need and Lester, as always, has planned everything with utmost precision. Still, it's always unsettling preparing for the amount of blood that'll be on his hands within the next 24 hours. A shootout is inevitable.

Michael never enjoys killing the way Trevor does. If it can be avoided, he makes sure to find another way out. Trevor shoots first and then thinks of different scenarios in hindsight for the fun of it later. It's infuriating.

He takes another deep drag on his cigarette.

He's having a difficult time processing these past few weeks. It's been an array of emotions all over the place. The more he lets go to enjoy himself, the angrier he becomes. Sometimes, he's content out here and it makes him feel guilty because he _shouldn't_ be. He shouldn't enjoy holding people at gunpoint, stealing boats and getting hammered with Trevor every night.

But that's just his whole fucking life, isn't it? This dichotomy of two personalities, constantly battling for center stage. To be a normal, stable, family man. Go to therapy, work on his anger. Pop anti-depressants and move through life bored and numb like the rest of Los Santos. Or, give into instinct and just do shit that _feels_ good, fuck everything else. He didn't realize just how much he misses that—happiness without having to really work for it.

That's how Trevor operates. At all times, he does whatever he wants. It's his greatest attribute and flaw. A defining character quality. His whole movement through life is propelled by emotions. He feels, therefore he acts. He never has to lie about who he is because he is honest about everything, through and through. Trevor chases what makes him happy and doesn't apologize for it. Michael admires that in him and hates him for it all at once because Michael knows he'll never be able to leave his guilt and shame behind to give into those impulses.

Michael's noticed a change in Trevor our here though and he's not sure if it's because Patricia is in the picture or what. He's more controlled, less willing to fly off the handle. His bloodlust appears satiated, at least since that run in with the bikers. He's even been off the meth for a bit now.

Christ, it's like they switched roles or something.

Michael feels himself turning back into someone he doesn't like very much. Someone Amanda _hates_. Someone once lost and forgotten, whom he went through quite a lotto move on from.

He flicks his cigarette butt to join the rest and ignites another. The orange hue from his lighter brightens his face in the darkness, features tired and stressed.

He sits in peace for a long while, his pack of cigarettes getting lighter, taking in the stars. They pulse in the sky, brighter than he's seen in days. That's one thing he can say for being out here, there's no light pollution from the city to block out the beauty in the sky.

He might die in a few hours. And while that would normally make anyone panic, it flips his stomach in ways that it shouldn't. There's no fear, only rumbling excitement brewing as the night moves towards morning.

When he feels his heart move to a more even pace, the creak of the door makes him jump compared to the still of the night.

"What are you doing out here, sugar? It's like 5AM."

Michael barely looks up and feels Trevor sit down beside him, "Can't sleep."

"You worried about the job?" His voice is low and scratchy, like he's just woken up.

"A bit, yeah."

"Well, don't be. I need you on point today."

Michael darts his eyes to Trevor and frowns, "Fuck off, I'll be fine. Maybe I just had enough of you talking in your sleep."

Trevor kicks back into the seat, legs outstretched straight, crossed at the ankles and looks forward. His eyes squinty and sunken in, yet sharp. Michael can tell he's ready.

"Sun'll be up soon," he says, eyes on the horizon.

Michael nods before taking another puff of nicotine. He hates to admit it, but Trevor's company helps, now that he's awake. They're in this together. Trevor has his back. And that was always a piece to the backbone of their partnership – the bold confidence he can have when he knows that Trevor Philips is looking after him on a job.

They watch the sunrise together, in silence and he starts to nod off beside Trevor. The last thing he remembers is the feeling of his cigarette being pulled away from his fingertips and his neck craning towards something bony and rigid.


	5. Chapter 5

**Night Fourteen.**

It's one of the riskiest scores they've pulled so far. Even though they didn't get to keep much of the take, they basically destroyed an entire town and fought the army and the air force and whoever the fuck else wanted to join in. And Trevor won't even come out to celebrate. Too busy with his high school romance to have a drink with his best friend. "Maybe later," he told Michael.

Trevor—the one who is always trying to pull Michael into activities like sticking up joints and getting hammered every night—turned him down. Fucking _Trevor_.

Too bad Michael couldn't get Franklin to stick around for some company. Not like that poor kid would want to stay out here anyway. No one wants to hang out in the desert when you have LS to go back to. Franklin doesn't have people gunning for him the moment he crosses city limits.

Michael has been drinking over at Yellow Jack for an unknown number of hours. He only realizes this when he squints at his watch and the hour hand is pointing to double digits seemingly out of nowhere.

"Hey!"

Michael slowly looks up from his glass, and his vision takes a second to catch up with the movement.

"Get it together or you're gone."

He looks around, head bobbing along with the motion, not entirely sure who Janet's talking to.

"Yeah, you," she says and then there's an abrupt finger pointed right in his face. He focuses on it, cross-eyed, "You're about to fall off the stool. Get it together or you're out on your ass in the parking lot."

Michael looks at her like she clearly doesn't know what she's talking about. He's fine. Just because he's been here however many the fuck hours doesn't mean he can't handle his liquor. Does she not know he's a seasoned alcoholic by now? He's in here every fucking night.

"Pipe down, I'm fuckin' fine."

"That's it. You got a number to call?"

x

When Trevor's phone rings, he ignores it. He and Patricia are enjoying a quiet evening on the porch. Michael clearly wanted to go out tonight, and Trevor didn't want to skip drinks with his old running buddy, but Patricia insisted she be with him. She was worried about him during the Paleto job. _Worried_. About _him_.

Despite the fact that she's still technically a hostage, she seemed genuinely concerned when he returned from the heist. She hugged him so tight that it caught him off guard and he stumbled back a step. He returned it anyway and promised they would have some time together. She bandaged up a few of his wounds after Michael left in a huff to the bar.

The night is cloudy, and the smell of rain hangs thick in the air. It's getting late, and she usually goes to sleep around eleven, but she hasn't hinted at that yet other than a few cute yawns. Her hand sits comfortably on his thigh, his over hers as they discuss the food that her mother used to make when she was a young girl. Patricia made tamales for him and Michael a few days ago and they were fucking del—

"FUCK," the phone's ringing a third time. "Fucking phone." He looks at Patricia, eyes direct and apologetic, "I'm sorry, just a second."

She nods, taking her hand from him, expression calm. She moves a stray red hair away from her eye and a soft smile never leaves her lips.

He walks away from the porch, already annoyed but he doesn't like losing his temper in front of her. She doesn't need to see him that way. He takes it out on a rock and kicks it down the road instead, puffs of dirt trailing behind.

He pulls the phone to his ear, wearing the irritation in his voice front and center, "Speak."

"TREVOR."

It's practically the sound of a bullhorn on the other end and he winces at the volume, "Who is this?"

"You're the last person I want to be calling, believe me. But your other half is causing trouble in my bar. I need him gone."

He pauses. He has a good inkling on who she's talking about, but he'll never pass up an opportunity to be a pain in the ass, "Who might that be?"

"It's Mich—" She's suddenly interrupted and there's chatter away from the phone before she returns, "He's telling me to tell you it's 'Mikey.''"

Trevor can't help the smile and coughs out a laugh. Although, when he turns back to Patricia, he frowns. Seems like this _Mikey_ is about to interrupt a perfectly nice evening, "So, you need him gone. How exactly is that my problem?"

He hears a deep sigh on the other end and commotion in the background, "Listen, Trevor. I need you to come get him. He's already—HEY! Take it outside! Not in my bar!"

"Well well, now that doesn't sound too good."

"Great, now he's outside fighting my customers. I can't have him in here again, Trevor. Come get him, _now_."

Trevor takes his time, and when he pulls into the parking lot, Michael is sitting outside. He's on the ground, legs outstretched and back against one of the wooden pillars. Sunglasses hang on his nose despite the fact it's been dark for hours.

There are a few guys around smoking, paying no mind, this being a usual scene for the place. If someone can't handle their alcohol, they're left outside, and the lucky ones will get a ride home. Trevor's seen enough people wake in the morning with a killer hangover and even worse sunburn. It may have happened to himself a few times.

Michael doesn't move when Trevor parks in front of him. The LIQUOR sign sits comically above him, flickering bright yellow as his head lulls back and forth like a ragdoll. Trevor sits in his truck for a moment, taking it in. The oh so usually controlled Michael Town—fucking de Santa—is an obliterated, drunken mess in the middle of Trevor's very own Sandy Shores. This is just peachy. Roles were typically reversed in this type of situation. It used to be Michael picking up Trevor after getting kicked out of some bar. It used to be Trevor interrupting Michael's night with a lady.

Michael's definitely been drinking a lot out here, but he hasn't made it to this pathetic state yet. Trevor can't even remember the last time he's seen Michael this far gone. And Trevor can't help a hearty laugh when he kicks his door open and leaves the car running.

He walks over and stands, hand on his hip, "Ah, Mikey. I have to say, you don't look like you're in the best of shape here, bro."

Michael's head sways and the way he looks up, it's like his skull weighs 80lbs. The glasses barely hang onto his nose, and his eyes peek out above the rim. His right cheek is bright red, shining beneath the streetlamps, plumper than usual. He smiles, and it's slow, the muscles in his face struggling to catch up to the nerves, "Trevor."

Trevor's eyebrows raise. Looking into completely glazed eyes, Michael's even worse than he thought. "Seems like someone had an interesting night."

Michael exhales like he's letting out a large puff of smoke and his eyes fall shut, "Yeah… well, I had a night. Don't know about, ya know, a good one."

Trevor looks around and there's splatters of blood covering Michael's swollen knuckles, both hands. Matching puddles surround him and trail to various areas in the parking lot. "Want to clue me in on what the fuck happened here?"

"Well… that mustache… fuckin' returned," he says, looking down at his hands. He extends both sets of fingertips wide, stretching them as trickles of blood slip down to his knuckles. Purple is already beginning to form with shades of an ugly yellow staining the outside, "He started… some shit. I finished it."

"That so."

Michael nods, slowly, "He asked where you were."

"Sounds like a harmless question. I've practically achieved celebrity status around here, after all."

"He asked where my _boyfriend_ was."

There it is. "Ah." Michael's repression knows no bounds and God help anyone that brings that to Michael's attention. Trevor suddenly feels bad about taking his time coming over here. Would've been nice to see Michael take out some mustachioed fuck over the implications that he's gay. A glorious sight indeed.

"Fuckin'… assholes."

"Plural? How many of these guys were there?"

Michael's body lazily begins to lean to the left, but he catches himself and wobbles his body back center, "Two."

"And you defended my honor? My hero." Trevor asks, trying hard to contain his laughter.

Michael narrows his eyes and looks up at Trevor, "W-why are you here anyway?"

Trevor looks around, letting out a high whistle, "Well, when the owner of this fine establishment interrupts my perfectly nice time with a beautiful and quite frankly perfect woman, to pick up my best friend because he's become a nuisance… I come running. Because that's the kind of guy I am."

Michael's shoulders slump and his gaze turns back to the ground, "Yeah, okay… help me up."

"Drunk _and_ demanding!" He reaches his hand out and it takes Michael a few swinging tries before successfully grabbing Trevor by the wrist.

"Come on, Pork Chop." He pulls Michael easily, but Michael crashes right into his chest and arms go around his waist as Michael struggles for balance. Trevor raises his elbows, looking down at Michael clinging to him, face smashed into the breast pocket of Trevor's t-shirt.

Before Trevor can even get out a sarcastic comment on the complete lack of balance here, Michael out of fucking nowhere says: "You're hard."

This surprises Trevor, and it's a rare occasion he's surprised by anything anymore, "What was that?"

Michael looks up, supporting his chin on Trevor's chest. Trevor looks down, sucking his jaw into his neck to see Michael clearly, "You're right… I got soft. You didn't. You're just like you were before," and Michael tries, but fails, to poke Trevor in the abdomen.

It makes Trevor laugh and a few coyotes bolt at the noise, "Ah, you're not wrong, Drunk Mikey. You sure have turned into quite the cushy and circular man."

Trevor tries to guide them at a slow pace to the truck but Michael's posture refuses to change. He's shuffling along, spine bent, with hands wrapped completely around Trevor's waist as if he'd fall off a cliff if he let go. Trevor lets a hand fall to the back of Michael's neck to help guide him in the correct direction.

And Trevor couldn't be giddier. So much so, he's about to run into the bar and order ten shots for himself just to join the party. It's a rare situation when Trevor is the responsible party and this is a cause for celebration.

On what seems like an hour walk to go ten feet, Trevor manages to pry open Michael's grip and push him rather easily into the passenger seat. Getting the seatbelt on him is another story.

"No."

Trevor frowns, hard. For the first time since he's seen Michael in this ridiculous state, he's annoyed, "Wear your fucking seatbelt, you ass."

Michael tries to bat him away as Trevor holds out the metal end, "Don't need it."

Trevor growls, "Yes," he leans over to buckle it in place, "you fucking do."

Michael laughs, and it gets especially louder when the click of the seatbelt is in place.

Trevor shuts the door and leans elbows over the open window, "And what's so funny?"

Michael's smile is wide, his eyes in happy slits, "You fuckin' maniac. You're reckless… with everything…. But oh! God forbid someone doesn't put on a seatbelt." And he hiccups, like the fucking cliché that he is.

Trevor rolls his eyes and realizes he needs those shots after all, "God. Stay here, alright? I'll be right back." He goes to walk away, and once he's a few steps in, he turns back with a firm point, "I mean it! Don't fucking move."

Michael's hands go up and he holds them there, dumb drunken smile still plastered onto his face.

Trevor goes into the bar and orders two double shots of whiskey. Janet is apprehensive, but with a little persuasion of leaving a middle aged and completely wasted individual back on her doorstep, she obliges. He quickly downs them both.

The moment he swings the bar door back open, the sound of a radio blaring welcomes him back to the parking lot. Michael is still in the truck, bouncing his head poorly to the beat of a Queen song. The closer Trevor gets, he hears Michael trying to sing along, and the slurred words that pop out of his mouth aren't remotely close to the correct lyrics.

Trevor throws anyone staring at them a scowl before hopping into the car. He turns down the radio.

"Hey!" Michael yells, and he pouts. Actually fucking pouts.

"Okay, I'm gonna need you to get it the fuck together. You're a mess."

Michael leans his head back against the leather headrest and lazily turns towards Trevor, "Oh, I'm a mess? If I'm a mess you must be…"

Trevor lifts an eyebrow as he wheels out of the parking lot with a loud screech, "Oh, _I_ must be what? A wonderful friend that's giving another a ride out of the kindness of his heart?"

Michael purses his lips and turns his head to the other side, apparently enjoying the breeze hitting his face instead of providing a response.

It doesn't take long to get to the trailer and Michael seems preoccupied, humming along with the radio. Trevor's actually surprised he didn't end up passing out, considering he didn't seem that far off when he was sitting on the ground.

Getting Michael into the trailer proves to be a more difficult feat.

He practically falls out of the truck, the seatbelt the only thing keeping him in place as his upper torso swings along with the open door. Trevor snorts, "See? Good thing you're wearing that." He pushes him back upright, "Uncle T knows what's best."

Michael drops his hand to the seatbelt, and it must be made of butter because he can't release it for the life of him, "Get this fuckin'… thing off me."

Trevor moves quick, pushing the button and letting the seatbelt retract and hit Michael square in the jaw, "Come on, asshole."

After much effort and stumbling, Trevor manages to get him inside the trailer, and thank God he gave those ear plugs to Patricia because Michael lumbers into everything. His head goes into the fridge so hard it opens the door. Somehow, the sunglasses still cling to his face. Trevor rolls his eyes and grows bored of this charade. This was funny at first but now he's just fucking babysitting.

He pushes Michael towards the bedroom, "Will you just get in the bed, you fucking turd?"

Michael laughs, still unable to stand upright, but he stumbles towards the bedroom. He's about to walk into the doorframe before Trevor rights his path with another shove. "Oh, you mean _our_ bed?" Michael says, with a light laugh.

It makes Trevor come to a complete stop and his lungs detach to plummet towards his stomach. It's one word but _fuck_ if that doesn't sound like a 22-year-old Townley. He always referred to it as 'their' bed back in the day whenever he wanted to fool around.

Trevor tries to ignore it, knowing full well that Michael is too far gone at this point, and pushes him a little harder than needed. Michael lands face first on the bed, and muffled laughter fills the room. Trevor leans a shoulder against the door frame, watching this drunk mess try to navigate life as he teeters back and forth like an overturned turtle.

After a few moments of poor wiggling, Michael manages to roll over and sit upright. The sunglasses are completely crooked on his face and Trevor is surprised they aren't broken, considering the face plant that just happened. He bends forward to snatch them from Michael's face and with a swiftness that is impeccable for someone this drunk, Michael grabs Trevor's wrist. Glasses dangle carelessly in his hand, but he doesn't move, curious to see what Drunk Mikey is up to.

Trevor lets the glasses fall from his grip, forgotten. Michael turns Trevor's wrist so the palm is upright, and studies each scrape and scar in agonizing silence. He keeps his hold and brings his other hand to trace a cut along Trevor's thumb, fingertips slow and gentle, before following a path of veins up through the forearm.

Trevor's breathing is immediately tight and shallow. A slight ringing surrounds the room as he departs to another world that only involves the two of them. Michael's touch, slow and accurate, fires off every synapse in his brain and he's focused and fuzzy all at the same time.

Michael continues the journey up Trevor's arm, fingertips grazing strands of hair and outlining cheap tattoos. He stops at a circular, white bump at the inside of Trevor's elbow. He swallows, other hand still on Trevor's wrist and finally looks up at him, squinty eyes struggling to keep themselves open.

"Is that from…?" He asks.

Trevor looks down, breaking his gaze from Michael's face. He frowns when he sees what Michael is talking about and there's a shift in the room. A stiffness and pressure encircles them and it's immediately restrictive, "Yeah."

"You don't anymore?"

Trevor shakes his head, memories of an eternal numbness, deafening sirens, and Michael's furious but terrified face reflect back at him. While Trevor never has, nor ever will, live a healthy lifestyle, there are some forms of self-destruction that he's learned to stay away from. "No," he says firmly, because he means it and needs Michael to know that, "not the drug for me."

Michael exhales with a pause and Trevor doesn't dare move. He swallows, hard, his mouth dry, head only vaguely slippery from those shots in the bar. Michael pulls Trevor's arm closer to him and slowly leans forward. His eyes close and he lays his forehead against Trevor's inner elbow, the scar pressed under his hairline.

It's the most tender thing Trevor has experienced in years and his body almost convulses at how alien it is. While he cares deeply for Patricia, for whatever fucking cruel prank the universe keeps playing on him, nothing can replicate the bolts of electricity that vibrate beneath his skin when Michael touches him. Every piece of his body is tense other than his arm, as if Michael's the only thing keeping him from turning to stone. His opposite hand clenches into a fist.

Trevor doesn't move and watches him.

"God," Michael starts before backing his head slowly away. He keeps his eyes on the scar and traces his thumb over it, "that fuckin' scared me."

Trevor swallows, voice low, "I know, Mikey."

Michael takes a long inhale and exhale like he's been holding it in for weeks. He tilts his head upward and keeps glossy eyes on Trevor, but despite the glaze, his face is washed away of anything other than complete and utter sincerity, "I missed you."

The hyper sensation of being locked in another's orbit was always overwhelming for Trevor, but when it's with Michael, the rest of the world shuts off. There's nothing besides the two of them, and nothing else could ever be worth his attention. The room suddenly feels like a 30 dollar a night bargain, with moldy sheets and the stench of water damage. A place he's longed to return for twenty years.

And fuck if it doesn't ignite something in him almost forgotten. Like every second he holds Michael's gaze, another wrinkle is removed, another pound of baggage lighter. He feels young again, _really_ fucking feels it this time, "That so?"

Michael gives a heavy nod, leaning a bit to the left before catching himself to stay upright. He doesn't let go and Trevor isn't entirely sure if he's imagining it or not, but there's a soft rub of Michael's thumb on his wrist and it's not as clumsy as the rest of Michael right now. It's smooth and even and all too familiar. Michael nods again, closing his eyes only for a moment before they magnetize back to Trevor's curious stare, "Yeah. I mean it, man… I missed you. I missed us. The partnership. I really fuckin' did."

Trevor remains still, pushing away arguments brewing in his head that it's Michael's fucking fault this needed to be something to miss in the first place. But he stays quiet, incredibly eager to hear what else spills out of Drunk Mikey's mouth.

But nothing else comes, and all that's left is one last soft touch from his thumb and his arm drops like there's a sudden wave of cement flowing through the veins. His head lulls back and his body blindly follows. He's on his back in an instant and when his eyes flutter shut, sleep appears closer than his next two breaths.

Trevor thinks about staying but he's not tired. He's wide awake off adrenaline and maybe a little drunk off sentimentality. Meth will help him shift into a different headspace now that neither Michael nor Patricia are around to keep him occupied.

But when Trevor turns to leave, there's a loud groan behind him.

"W-wait."

Trevor looks back towards the bed, and he's honestly surprised because Michael is on his feet again. If only he had this type of agility when Trevor was trying to get him up the fucking steps of the trailer, "Yes, princess?"

Michael grabs Trevor's wrist and tries to keep his head from swaying. Trevor doesn't mean to, but his body goes immediately stiff, _again_, "Stay."

He takes a deep breath, trying hard to ignore those bolts of nerves flying through his arm, to his chest, and any type of slack in his body stays wound and tight. Like he could explode or disappear all at once and he's actually mad. He's furious that after all this goddamn time, the smallest piece of attention from this fat oaf makes him feel this way. And fuck if he doesn't crave it every time he's given even the smallest piece.

He's about to rip his arm away out of principal but he just can't. His feet are planted, and his eyes are locked with Michael's, who is especially struggling now to keep his open.

Trevor swallows, his voice low and even, devoid of his usual theatrics or sarcasm, "Okay."

A stupid and victorious grin slides across Michael's face from ear to ear. He doesn't let go of Trevor but turns around and crawls on his knees to the opposite side of the bed, awkwardly tugging Trevor along. Michael lays on his side, nudging his face into the pillow, his hold on Trevor relentless like he's some sort of stuffed animal.

Trevor has no choice but to follow and he's on the bed, supported by his knees, peering down at this seemingly happy and content mess. Drunk Mikey, with no family, no ties. Only reckless impulses and shared bedrooms. Trevor smiles. A giddy and drunk Michael is his Achilles' heel and all he can do is lay down and comply.

As soon as Trevor's back is on the mattress, Michael wiggles in close. His limbs are on Trevor in an instant, slotting in and connecting naturally. His arm swings over Trevor's chest and his leg tucks up and over between Trevor's thighs. And for the first time in years, Trevor is completely and utterly vulnerable. Exposed. But a soft smile hangs on the corner of his mouth. This is what these past two weeks have been – relishing in these glimpses of the Michael he used to know and maybe even loved. He pulls his own hand up to rest on Michael's forearm and his head tilts to lean atop Michael's. He can't count the amount of times they've fallen asleep this way in the past and despite the expansive time difference, it's not weird. It's relaxing, the fit of them coming together like two damaged puzzle pieces.

Trevor closes his eyes and he knows this is a mistake. There's too much left unsaid, and while it's been fun out here in the desert with Michael, Trevor knows that he still cannot trust him.

He's not Michael Townley anymore. He's not who he was. He's not the same, he's not the same, he's not the same.

But when Michael nuzzles his head into the crook of Trevor's neck, and his annoying snores revv to life, breath smelling like piss because of whatever he was drinking, that's when Trevor can feel that side of hope he's been battling take over.

Maybe this could really be it. Maybe Michael is finally giving in. Trevor looks down at the hand on his chest, knuckles still fresh from the fight only hours before, blood beginning to stick and harden. It's even been a few days since Michael has mentioned the family. Trevor saw him during the Paleto job – he was happy. He was _thriving_. He was in his own element, living life the way he wants to. No Amanda forcing him to change, no kids tying him down – he was strong, capable, and driven.

And he was by Trevor's side.

This is it. Who cares if Michael is drunk? He chose to give into this and now he finally has. He went and indulged himself on his own tonight. He can't blame Trevor for this. Trevor didn't keep him at the bar for hours or pick fights with mustachioed men. Michael did that on his own accord.

Trevor has to make sure nothing changes.

He's awake for a long time, listening to Michael's snoring, flashes of the past playing repeatedly through his mind. After finally dozing off, he's greeted with the morning sunshine and an otherwise empty bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Day Sixteen.**

"_Trev, can I say something?"_

"_Shoot away, amigo." Trevor wafts his hand in the air before he licks his thumb to continue counting the wad of cash in hand. He and Michael are sitting on a dingy motel carpet, duffle bag open between them with 8k sloppily spread about the floor. Trevor sits cross legged, bills spread along the thigh of his cargo pants. His shaggy hair hangs loose over his brow as he keeps his attention organizing money._

_Michael shifts, his posture rounded and hunched over the bag. He clears his throat __as__ he starts, "These past few months, man… they've been the best of my life. I mean it."_

_Trevor scoffs, keeping his gaze on sorting out higher and lower bills, "Settle down, old timer. What's the comparison for the rest of your life? Summer vacation? You're only 21."_

"_So are you."_

"_Yeah, I know that," __he__ sets aside a stack of hundreds. "I'm not the one waxing poetic about my limited time on Earth__ here__."_

"_Seriously, bro. Look at me." Michael inches forward on the floor and pushes the duffel bag aside so he's sitting directly across from Trevor. He puts a hand on Trevor's elbow, his touch soft. Trevor looks down at the hand, surprised by the brief contact. He didn't even realize Michael was sitting so close. Trevor meets his eyeline for only a moment to signify he's listening before he continues sorting._

"_I've had a rough go at this. I've been making money, but I can't find one fuckin' person that I trust. I told you, the last guy I tried working with got me in prison a few years back so that's why I've just been on my own since then. I just… this has been a good go at it, ya know? We work really well together. I know I can depend on you." He clears his throat, "On a job."_

_Trevor flashes a quick grin, "And now that _I'm_ out of the joint, things have been smooth sailing, Mikey." He holds up the bills and gives them a little wave, "I can get used to this."_

"_That partnership you were talking about."_

_This gets Trevor's attention. He lets the money down gently as if it's the most delicate thing he's laid eyes on__, __and it might as well be. He's never seen this much cash in person before._

_He turns to Michael and the disposition of Michael's face is very serious. But before Michael can continue, Trevor's already on it, "Listen, I ain't going anywhere. This is all I got. When I asked if you were interested in a partnership, I meant it." He signals his hand back and forth between the two of them, his eyes locked with Michael's, "You and me? This works. We plan, we take action, we take no bullshit. We keep moving like we've been and they'll never catch us. There's potential here__.__ I know you see it, too."_

_Michael smiles and it's clear Trevor took the words right out of his mouth. It's a smile that's contagious and Trevor's chest tightens with hope for a future for the first time in a long while. Finally._

_His time with Michael so far has made sense. Like something finally slotted into place. After he was grounded, he's been lost. Moving through life reckless, welcoming death with open arms if things took a turn. But since he's met Michael and moved into a life of crime, that need to end it all has faded. He feels a sense of purpose again__, something__ he hasn't felt since his first day __in basic training__._

_Him and Michael against the world. They'll be unstoppable._

_There's only a beat before Michael extends his hand, "I got your back."_

_Trevor can't help the grin, wide and bright, "A handshake, Townley? Really?"_

_Michael rolls his eyes, "Just shake my fuckin' hand, make this official."_

_Trevor knows it's corny, but __a__ warmth floods through him__ anyway__. He takes Michael's hand and he's never meant anything more in his life, "I got your back."_

When Trevor wakes up, his body is sore. Cracking bones and tender flesh in all the wrong places. Jumping a dirt bike onto a moving train and diving off a bridge will do that to you. He looks over and Michael isn't on his usual side of the bed. He ignores the disappointment, and stretches across the full length of the bed, back arching with the ease of a feline.

A delightful smell fills the room and he smiles before things take a turn and his heart plummets through the mattress. He's going to miss this. Patricia has gone out of her way to take care of him and no one has done that for him since his mother.

His sweet and precious mother. She would love Patricia.

He has to tell Patricia that he's taking her back home tonight and the thought of it feels like he's choking. He may not even have the strength to do it, let alone get in his truck and actually drive her away from himself. Possibly forever.

These past few weeks have been like a fever dream. It's been so long since Trevor's been happy – genuinely happy – that he might as well have been sleepwalking. It just doesn't seem real.

Having Patricia take care of him, and appreciate who he really is, is something that he's grown accustomed to. He didn't expect to fall for her like this but it's less than scarce that such a strong and beautiful woman doesn't look at him like he is a monster. She's been such a light in his life that she actually makes him want to be a better man when he's with her.

Of course, he's always known this little stint in the desert was going to end. Anything positive in his life always fucking does. No one is permanent for Trevor.

But Michael… having him back has been a roller coaster of emotions. At first, Michael was too pathetic to look at. He deteriorated into a shell of a man, a shadow of someone greater. But now, he's reverted back to something else entirely. Trevor witnessed a gradual transformation back into Michael Townley. Someone worthy of Trevor's admiration and time. They're back, and there's no changing that. The partnership is sacred.

It's always been inevitable that he was going to lose Patricia, but maybe he could keep Michael.

"Trevor! Breakfast!"

**Night Sixteen.**

_Listen__,__ Dad__...__we still don't want to see you and all that but I just had a weird conversation with Uncle T. He said you two are living together now and you don't need us anymore? That our family is an__…__ab…uh, abomination? What the fuck is going on?_

Michael listens to the voicemail for a 5th time and it still doesn't fail to make his fucking blood boil. He runs a hand over his face, growling lowly into his palm until it turns into a full-blown roar of frustration. His hands dart to the steering wheel, arms locked straight, and his knuckles begin to pool into a bright white as he tries counting to ease his temper.

What a great fucking predicament. Nothing like having to assure your kid that his crazy uncle is just that—crazy. That everything is going to be fine even though the family hates you and doesn't want you around.

Solid situation you've gotten yourself into, Michael.

Everything was feeling pretty good, too. Turns out, this exile in the desert was a nice distraction from the dumpster fire that is his current life. There was a vigor surfacing that he hasn't felt in years. Like it was the old days and Trevor could actually be a somewhat normal fucking friend.

Then Trevor goes and fucks it up by involving his family. Always with his fucking family. Trevor has zero boundaries whenever it comes to them.

At least he didn't call Amanda. Thank fuck, at least he didn't do that. Who knows how much deeper in the shit he would be if Trevor called fucking Amanda. Hopefully Jimmy has enough sense not to mention anything to her.

He rolls his eyes. That's rich: Jimmy having any sense.

He sighs again, like if he were to shoulder one more burden he would totally collapse. The brink of the abandoned dock splinters into the Alamo sea and sailboats float by on the horizon as a yellow sun evolves into blood orange. His sedan sits at the edge, covered in speckles of blood from the poor bastard he lifted it from hours earlier.

The biggest disappointment is the fact that Michael let himself get wrapped up in this shit again. It was so easy to get sucked into the climate that is Trevor Philips and give into those compulsions he's worked so hard to avoid. This isn't a lifestyle that's sustainable and Michael fucking knows it. He really must be the nutcase that Dr. Friedlander considers him to be, since the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results.

How the hell did he wind up in this situation? He's robbing liquor stores with a meth head, for fucks sake. He's not a kid anymore without responsibilities. A family man doesn't pull these stunts. He's backsliding. Pulling that deck down was bad enough, and ever since, it's been nothing but freefall.

What's even worse, he knows deep down that he's enjoyed giving into these impulses. It makes his self-hatred all the more potent because he _shouldn't_. Trevor is a literal psychopath, a goddamn maniac with an insatiable blood lust… but fuck if Michael didn't look forward to going to the bar with him every night. Or that rush of adrenaline he craved as they worked a job. He can't put his finger on what it is about Trevor but Michael knows that when he's with him, there's a looming danger above that is exhilarating. It's everything but boring, which is the exact type of life he's been drinking away for the past decade in LS.

Michael should fear death. He should hate this pull that Trevor has on him. But he hasn't felt this free in a long while despite the fact it's been at the back of his mind that this was always temporary.

And it needs to stop. This path of chaos can't continue. He needs to fix shit with Madrazo, the FIB, and more importantly, his family. If he keeps shit up like he has been, the only thing at the end of the line is a real funeral and his family left without a father and husband. Who knows if they would even mourn him at this point. He's already lost them and with fucking Trevor interfering, he's set back even further in getting them back under one roof.

Michael needs to get out of this fucking desert. And finally, thanks to Lester's delivery, he can. Now, he just needs to get Patricia back and everything should be square. He can practically smell the sweet, polluted air of Los Santos.

Michael turns the car around, shifts to drive, and heads back to the trailer.

x

The front door flies open so fast that it actually startles Trevor. Patricia jumps from the noise and she instantly drops Trevor's hand as hers fall to the couch cushion. The moment Michael sees them, he starts, eyes wide with a fire, "What in the actual FUCK, Trevor?"

Trevor is on his feet in an instant. Face red, eyes sunken and more bloodshot than usual.

"You called my fuckin' son?" Michael starts, moving forward, hands curled into fists, "And told him some shit about me not needing them anymore? Are you fuckin' _insane_?"

Patricia's eyes ping-pong between them both, the weight of the argument making it apparent this isn't their usual bickering.

Trevor frowns and charges past Michael to continue this shit on the porch, mindful to hit a shoulder with his own on the way out. It's bad enough he's already having a difficult conversation with one of the only positives in his life, now he has to deal with Michael being a prick. "Don't fucking lose it in front of her," he says and swings open the door.

"Oh, like it matters!" Michael yells, throwing his arms in the air as he follows Trevor outside. "I told you Lester squared things away with her psycho husband. You're taking her back tonight, do you fuckin' hear me? This shit is over with."

"I know!" Trevor roars, his voice shaken, and Ron peeks his head out from his window. "FUCK. I know, I know, I fucking know. I'm taking her back today, Jesus fucking Christ. We were talking about it before you interrupted, you rude fuck." Trevor suddenly turns towards the other trailer, "Ron! I swear to God, if you don't get back inside, I'll snap your spine in half and feed it to coyotes!"

Ron quickly retreats inside, his window slamming down so hard that it almost breaks.

Michel ignores him, nostrils flaring, eyes focused like he's about to snipe a helicopter, "What did you say to Jimmy? He said you called him an abomination?"

"What? No." Trevor scoffs, "I said family life for you was just an aberration. I _did_ call him a brat." He crosses his arms, "Probably should've thrown stupid in there, too."

"You can't type out a coherent text message but you're throwing around shit like aberration to my son?"

Trevor grinds his teeth, "I'm not in the mood for your shit today, alright?"

Michael throws his hands up, "I'm _never_ in the mood for your shit! But here we fuckin' are. What else did you say to him?" He takes a step forward, "Exactly."

Trevor rolls his eyes. In a way, he's thankful for the distraction right now. He was about to break down in front of Patricia but still, he can't take Michael being this angry with him. Not when they were so close to falling back into place, "Look, all I said was that you and I are bunking again and that you don't need the family anymore. Those kids need someone who will be honest with them for once in their lives."

Michael practically spins, his hands in a panic on his head, "Are you kidding me?! You can't just call my fuckin' family like that and tell them I don't need them anymore! I'm trying to get them back home, get myself back home—not retreat to a life with you in this fuckin' desert!"

He spits out the words like it's im-fucking-possible and all Trevor wants to do is headbutt him in the fucking face. The absolute ignorance on this fat fuck. How does he not see how much he's been thriving out here?

Trevor's eyebrows lower and a vein in his forehead vibrates. He takes a step forward and points in Michael's face, "We had a fun time out here. Don't fucking deny it."

He swats Trevor's hand away, "Oh! Just a blast! Robbing liquor stores, murdering bikers, and falling right into the reckless agenda of the local meth head. Yeah, real fuckin' grand old time."

"Fuck you! And fuck your sarcasm. I'm sick of this lie you keep trying to slither your way into. You keep acting all high and mighty like you're better than me, but you're not. You have the same urges that I do. The only difference is, I don't keep hiding from it and telling myself I'm something I'm not."

Michael rolls his eyes, "Oh, please. I'm nothing like you."

"Look at that fucking car!" Trevor gestures towards the sedan sloppily parked beyond the fence, "There's blood on it. I'll take a wild guess and assume that's not yours, Mikey. You pull the same shit that I do. Get your fucking head out of your ass."

Michael clearly recoils, but stands his ground, "I do what I have to. What I _don't_ do is look for trouble just to shake up an afternoon like you do."

"You forget beating the shit out of two guys the other night, or was that just something you 'had to do?'"

"I—"

Trevor interrupts, "You're really going to stand here and tell me that you didn't have fun out here? You're a miserable fuck, but we had a good time. Going to the bar every night? Pulling scores? I know who you are, Michael _Townley_. You feed off that kind of shit."

Michael bites his tongue and exhales, jaw tight, temper brimming throughout his top layer of skin, "Fine, we had fun out here, okay? But this was always temporary, Trev. I have a fucking family."

The mere mention of them sends Trevor further into a spiral of pure frustration. Michael is away from them, how the fuck are they still a factor after all his time out here? "Fuck you," he spits, exasperated, "Always you and your fucking family."

"Yes!" Michael yells, "Always me and my fucking family, _because_ _they're my fucking family_! How do you not understand this?"

It's baffling that _he_ doesn't get it, "I told you! You're thriving out here, Mikey! You're actually happy for once and you're pissed at me for trying to keep you in a place where you're not utterly depressed? Well, excuse the fuck out of me." He breaks the gap between them and points again into Michael's chest, "We're running buddies, you can't change that. And now we're back."

Michael pauses for a long time, their stares unwavering. Trevor can feel Michael's chest rise and fall at his fingertip as he searches his eyes. For a moment, Michael softens, but it's only a glimpse before it feels like an anvil appears above Trevor's head, heavy and imminent.

Michael's voice becomes more controlled, no longer laced with as much anger, and he enunciates every word, "I told you not to get attached."

And at that, Trevor's feet almost give out. Attached. He said don't get attached. To Patricia.

Don't get attached to Michael.

Trevor is pathetic because he can actually _feel_ his heart rip in two, one half for Michael and the other for Patricia.

Michael fucking called it, and predictability is never something usually associated with Trevor. Yet again, Michael is the one in control between the two. Yet again, it's Trevor left wanting more while this fat reptile calls the shots.

Trevor's chest tightens, collapsing in on itself, and his anger slowly slips into something else. Something desperate, overwhelming, and bordering on panic. He's going to be alone. Again. They're leaving him, just like everyone else.

His hands shake and he clenches them to the point his knuckles could crumble beneath the pressure. He needs familiar footing, so he clings to rage. If he doesn't, he knows he'll break down in front of Michael and wouldn't that just top everything right the fuck off, "Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, _FUCK_ YOU!"

Trevor's brain spins so rapidly the pressure in his skull makes his stomach turn. He places his hands on his thighs for support, desperately searching for some sort of stability. He's losing them. Patricia is going to go back to that abusive piece of shit. And Michael… Just when Trevor gets a glimpse of the person he lost, Michael decides to go back to being a snake and his fucking movie studio and his fucking family and his fucking bowl of whatever the fuck he's eating and not giving a single fuck about Trevor. These past few weeks amounted to nothing and he wants to set something on fire.

Michael turns around, ignoring him. Ignoring his feelings. Ignoring fucking everything. "Just get her back, alright?" He starts, and he sounds less angry, but firm, "Fuck, I may be an idiot saying this but I'm trusting you here, okay? She needs to go back to her husband." He sighs and pauses, "And don't talk to my fuckin' family again. You hear me?"

He starts towards his car and Trevor can't help it—he knows the answer, but he asks anyway, "Where are you going?" His voice is low, weak, brimming with desperation so pathetic his self-loathing burns hotter than the desert heat.

Michael's hand is on the door handle and still, he doesn't turn to look at Trevor, "Back to fuckin' civilization. I'll see you in LS."

Trevor watches Michael get into his car and he's leaving. He's fucking _leaving_. Trevor swallows, his eyes wide, and he can just feel the sting of tears getting ready to work overtime. He wants to run and tell him to stay. Tell him that maybe calling Jimmy was extreme. Tell him these past few weeks have meant more to him than any high he could chase. Tell him that he just wants him back. Be how they _were_.

But he doesn't, and his body is limp and barely standing. Michael's car shrinks down the road in puffs of dirt and sand. He's so empty the heat devours him whole and no one cares.

No one gives a fuck about Trevor Phillips.

Now, he has to look heaven in the face and take her back to some piece of shit that can't comprehend what a gift she is. He either wants to lay down in traffic or watch the life drain from someone's eyes.

When he gets her into the truck, that's when the tears finally come and all color drains from his world.

xx

Author's Notes: Since this is a companion fic, I hope no one was hoping for a happy ending. :x This segues right into the part of the game when Trevor is crying in his truck and taking Patricia home. Michael's stay in Sandy Shores is officially over at this point, and the Bury the Hatchet mission is coming up soon.

The conversation that Trevor has with Jimmy in this chapter is straight from the game. If you haven't heard it yet, I highly suggest you call Jimmy with Trevor when he and Michael are hiding in Sandy Shores. It's great.

Thank you all for reading! I enjoyed writing this and playing around in the world with our two grumpy old men. If you've enjoyed this story, I would love to hear your thoughts! Comments and kudos are always very appreciated. :)


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